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N>  P.  WILLIS. 


NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  CLARK  &  AUSTIN. 

MDCCCXLVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844, 

BY  CLARK  &  AUSTIN. 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


preface. 

AFTER  repeated  publication  in  many  different 
shapes,  the  following  poems  are  now  presented 
in  a  more  convenient  and  cheaper  form  than 
ever  before  ;  and,  in  the  call  for  this  popular 
edition,  the  author  cannot  but  find  a  gratifying 
approbation  of  the  character  and  spirit  of  his 
writings.  Most  of  them  were  first  published  with 
no  expectation  of  the  ordeal  of  such  constant 
reproduction  to  public  notice,  and  the  author  is 
well  aware  that  their  popularity  arises  in  a  great 
measure  from  the  religious  and  moral  tone  of 
most  of  them,  and  from  their  having  thus  ap 
pealed  to  a  prevalent  taste  which  is  in  many 
ways  the  strength  and  beauty  of  his  country.  It 
is  a  happy  and  safe  land  where  such  qualities 
make  a  book  more  saleable.  The  poems  within 
are  commended,  once  more,  gratefully  and  feel 
ingly,  to  the  American  public. 

N.  P.  WILLIS. 

October,  1846. 


M145533 


Contents. 

Pare. 

The  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of  Jairus    .      .  7 

The  Leper 13 

David's  Grief  for  his  Child       .        .        .        .20 

The  Sacrifice  of  Abraham      ....  26 

The  Shunammite       .               ....  31 

Jephthah's  Daughter      .        .       .       .       .  36 

Absalom 41 

Christ's  Entrance  into  Jerusalem        .       .  46 

Baptism  of  Christ 50 

Scene  in  Gethsemane 53 

The  Widow  of  Nain          56 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness       ....  60 

Rizpah  with  her  Sons 66 

Lazarus  and  Mary          .               ...  71 
Thoughts  while  making  the  Grave  of  a  New 
born  Child 79 

On  the  Departure  of  Rev.  Mr.  White      .        .  82 

Birth-day  Verses 85 

To  my  Mother  from  the  Appenines         .        .  89 

Lines  on  leaving  Europe       ....  91 
A  true  Incident          .               .       .               .95 


Page. 

The  Mother  to  her  Child  ....  98 
A  Thought  over  a  Cradle  .  .  .  .100 

Thirty-five 102 

Contemplation 104 

On  the  Death  of  a  Missionary  .  .  .  107 
On  the  Picture  of  a  "  Child  tired  of  Play"  .  110 
A  Child's  first  Impression  of  a  Star  .  .  112 
On  Witnessing  a  Baptism  .  .  .  .114 

Reverie  at  Glenmary 116 

To  a  City  Pigeon 118 

The  Belfry  Pigeon 120 

Saturday  Afternoon 122 

The  Sabbath  124 

Dedication  Hymn 126 


POEMS. 


STJje  Realms  of  t£e  Jiaujjfrter  of  $afrus. 

FRESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.    She  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance— 
Her  thin  jpale  fingers  clasp'd  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast, 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  arid  motionless. 
The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 
And,  as  it  stirr'd  with  the  awakening  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 
And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 
She  turn'd  upon  her  pillow.    He  was  there— 
The  same  loved,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 
With  the  fast- falling  tears  ;  and,  with  a  sigh 
Of  tremulous  weakness  murmuring  his  name, 


8» 


v'Sfte  £errity  'drew  "Ms;  hand  ji^dn  l\e~  lips, 

And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.    The  old  man  sunk 

Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Ot  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face  ; 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 

Had  ceased  its  pressure— and  he  could  not  hear, 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 

Came  through  her  nostrils — and  her  temples  gave 

To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse— and,  at  her  mouth, 

He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 

Ached  with  its  deathly  stillness.    ***** 


******     jt  was  night — 
And,  softly,  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipp'd  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  play'd  low  upon  the  beach 
Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 
Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 
In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 
Seem'd  like  some  just-born  harmony  in  the  air, 
Waked  by  the  power  of  wisdom.    On  a  rock, 
With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 
He  stood  and  taught  the  people.    At  his  feet 
Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 


DAUGHTER    OF   JAIRUS. 


And  staff— for  they  had  waited  by  the  sea 
Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  pray'd 
For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 
His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 
And  the  long  curls  from  off*  his  shoulders  fell, 
As  he  lean'd  forward  earnestly,  and  still 
The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep — 
And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty— 
And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mix'd  with  power— 
Fill'd  them  with  love  and  wonder.    Suddenly, 
As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 
The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 
JAIRUS  THE  RULER.    With  his  flowing  robe 
Gather'd  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came, 
And  fix'd  his  eyes  on  Jesus.    Closer  drew 
The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side  ; 
And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away, 
And  left  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 
Alone.    A  moment  longer  on  the  face 
Of  the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze, 
And,  as  the  twelve  look'd  on  him,  by  the  light 
Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 
Steal  to  his  silver  beard  ;  and,  drawing  nigh 
Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 
Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 
Press'd  it  upon  his  lips,  and  murmur'd  low, 
"Master!  my  daughter !" —    ****** 


10  THE    HEALING    OF    THE 


******    The  same  silvery  light, 
That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals, 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcomed  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.    All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor, 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms, 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.    With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair ;  but  ere  he  touch'd 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  Trouble  the  Master  not — for  she  is  dead  ."' 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance  ;—  but  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
"  She  is  not  dead — but  sleepeth." 

They  pass'd  in. 

The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burn'd  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curl'd  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumber'd  in  their  folds — 
Not  even  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 


DAUGHTER    OF    JAIRUS.  11 


And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed, 
And  pray'd  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.    There  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm,  sad  face  ; 
And,  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart, 
And  look'd  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay— 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  lite  ; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins  ; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay, 
Matching  the  arches  pencill'd  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polish'd  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.    The  Saviour  raised 


r~ 

12  THE    HEALING,  ETC. 

Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"  Maiden  !  Arise .'" — and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  ihe  rallied  color  ran  ; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture  ;  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — AROSE  ! 


THE    LEPER.  13 


"  ROOM  for  the  leper  !    Room !"  And,  us  he  came, 
The  cry  pass'd  on—"  Room  for  the  leper !  Room !" 
Sunrise  was  slanting  on  the  city  gates 
Rosy  and  beautiful,  and  from  the  hills 
The  early  risen  poor  were  coming  in, 
Duly  and  cheerfully  to  their  toil,  and  up 
Rose  the  sharp  hammer's  clink,  and  the  far  hum 
Of  moving  wheels  and  multitudes  astir, 
And  all  that  in  a  city  murmur  swells — 
Unheard  but  by  the  watcher's  weary  ear, 
Aching  with  night's  dull  silence,  or  the  sick 
Hailing  the  welcome  light  and  sounds  that  chase 
The  death-like  images  of  the  dark  away. 
"  Room  for  the  leper !"    And  aside  they  stood— 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood— all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way— and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 


14  THE    LEPER. 


And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  Unclean  !" 

'Twas  now  the  first 
Of  the  Judean  autumn,  and  the  leaves, 
Whose  shadows  lay  so  still  upon  his  path, 
Had  put  their  beauty  forth  beneath  the  eye 
Of  Judah's  loftiest  noble.    He  was  young, 
And  eminently  beautiful,  and  life 
Mantled  in  eloquent  fulness  on  his  lip, 
And  sparkled  in  his  glance  ;  and  in  his  mien 
There  was  a  gracious  pride  that  every  eye 
Follow'd  with  benisons— and  this  was  he  ! 
With  the  soft  airs  of  summer  there  had  come 
A  torpor  on  his  frame,  which  not  the  speed 
Of  his  best  barb,  nor  music,  nor  the  blast 
Of  the  bold  huntsman's  horn,  nor  aught  that  stirs 
The  spirit  to  its  bent,  might  drive  away. 
The  blood  beat  not  as  wont  within  his  veins  ; 
Dimness  crept  o'er  his  eye  ;  a  drowsy  sloth 
Fetter'd  his  limbs  like  palsy,  and  his  mien, 
With  all  its  loftiness,  seem'd  struck  with  eld. 
Even  his  voice  was  changed — a  languid  moan 
Taking  the  place  of  the  clear  silver  key ; 
And  brain  and  sense  grew  faint,  as  if  the  light 
And  very  air  were  steep'd  in  sluggishness. 


THE    LEPER.  15 


He  strove  with  it  awhile,  as  manhood  will, 
Ever  too  proud  for  weakness,  till  the  rein 
Slacken'd  within  his  grasp,  and  in  its  poise 
The  arrowy  jereed  like  an  aspen  shook. 
Day  after  day,  he  lay  as  if  in  sleep. 
His  skin  grew  dry  and  bloodless,  and  white  scales, 
Circled  with  livid  purple,  cover'd  him. 
And  then  his  nails  grew  black,  and  fell  away 
From  the  dull  flesh  about  them,  and  the  hues 
Deepen'd  beneath  the  hard  unmoisten'd  scales, 
And  from  their  edges  grew  the  rank  white  hair, 
— And  Helon  was  a  leper ! 

j 

Day  was  breaking, 

When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.    The  incense  lamp 
Burn'd  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swell'd  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof 
Like  an  articulate  wail,  and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bow'd  down  his 

head 

Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb  ; 
|  And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 
I . 


16  THE    LEPER. 


Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still, 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  :— 

Depart !  depart,  0  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God ! 
For  He  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod ; 

And  to  the  desert-wild, 

From  all  thou  lov'st,  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  His  people  may  be  free. 

Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more  ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er  ; 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way ;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide  ; 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 
By  desert  well  or  river's  grassy  brink ; 

And  pass  thou  not  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze  ; 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 


THE    LEPER.  it 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen ; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

And  now  depart  I  and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  His  chastening  rod. 
Depart  I  O  leper !  and  forget  not  God ! 

And  he  went  forth — alone  !  not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.    Yea— he  went  his  way, 
Sick,  and  heart-broken,  and  alone— to  die ! 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper  ! 

It  was  noon, 

And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touch'd 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fever'd  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blest— to  die ! 
Footsteps  approach'd,  and,  with  no  strength  to  flee, ' 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip. 


18  THE    LEPER. 

Crying,  "  Unclean !  unclean  !"  and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  Stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name — 
"  Helon  !"    The  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument— most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  Helon  !  arise  !"  and  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose  and  stood  before  Him. 

Love  and  awe 

Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helen's  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.    He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore  ; 
No  followers  at  His  back,  nor  in  His  hand 
Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear,— yet  in  his  mien 
Command  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  He  smiled, 
A  kingly  condescension  graced  His  lips, 
The  lion  would  have  crouch'd  to  in  his  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple,  and  His  sandals  worn  ; 
His  stature  modell'd  with  a  perfect  grace  ; 
His  countenance-  the  impress  of  a  God, 
Touch'd  with  the  opening  innocence  of  a  child ; 


THE    LEPER.  19 

His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 

In  the  serenest  noon  ;  His  hair  unshorn 

Fell  to  His  shoulders  ;  and  His  curling  beard 

The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 

He  look'd  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 

As  if  His  heart  were  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 

He  took  a  little  water  in  His  hand 

And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean  !" 

And  lo  !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 

Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins. 

And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 

The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 

His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 

Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet  and  worshipp'd  him. 


20  DAVID'S  GRIEF 


s  6frfef  for  f)fs 


'TWAS  daybreak,  and  the  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Drew  the  night's  curtain,  and  touch'd  silently 

The  eyelids  of  the  king.    And  David  woke, 

And  robed  himself,  and  pray'd.    The  inmates,  now, 

Of  the  vast  palace  were  astir,  and  feet 

Glided  along  the  tesselat.ed  floors 

With  a  pervading  murmur,  and  the  fount 

Whose  music  had  been  all  the  night  unheard, 

Play'd  as  if  light  had  made  it  audible  ; 

And  each  one,  waking,  bless'd  it  unaware. 

The  fragrant  strife  of  sunshine  with  the  morn 
Sweeten'd  the  air  to  ecstasy  !  and  now 
The  king's  wont  was  to  lie  upon  his  couch 
Beneath  the  sky-roof  of  the  inner  court, 
And,  shut  in  from  the  world,  but  not  from  heaven, 
Play  with  his  loved  son  by  the  fountain's  lip  ; 
For,  with  idolatry  confess'd  alone 
To  the  rapt  wires  of  his  reproofless  harp, 
He  loved  the  child  of  Bathsheba.    And  when 
The  golden  selvedge  of  his  robe  was  heard 
_  ,  __  1 


FOR    HIS    CHILD.  21 

Sweeping  the  marble  pavement,  from  within 
Broke  forth  a  child's  laugh  suddenly,  and  words- 
Articulate,  perhaps,  to  his  heart  only- 
Pleading  to  come  to  him.    They  brought  the  boy— 
An  infant  cherub,  leaping  as  if  used 
To  hover  with  that  motion  upon  wings, 
And  marvellously  beautiful !    His  brow 
Had  the  inspired  up-lift  of  the  king's, 
And  kingly  was  his  infantine  regard  ; 
But  his  ripe  mouth  was  of  the  ravishing  mould 
Of  Bathsheba's— the  hue  and  type  of  love, 
Rosy  and  passionate— and  oh,  the  moist 
Unfathomable  blue  of  his  large  eyes 
Gave  out  its  light  as  twilight  shows  a  star, 
And  drew  the  heart  of  the  beholder  in ! — 
And  this  was  like  his  mother. 

David's  lips 

Moved  with  unutter'd  blessings,  and  awhile 
He  closed  the  lids  upon  his  moisten'd  eyes, 
And,  with  the  round  cheek  of  the  nestling  boy 
Press'd  to  his  bosom,  sat  as  if  afraid 
That  but  the  lifting  of  his  lids  might  jar 
His  heart's  cup  from  its  fulness.    Unobserved, 
A  servant  of  the  outer  court  had  knelt 
Waiting  before  him  ;  and  a  cloud  the  while 
Had  rapidly  spread  o'er  the  summer  heaven ; 


22  DAVID'S  GRIEF 

And,  as  the  chill  of  the  withdrawing  sun 
Fell  on  the  king,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  frown'd  upon  the  servant — for  that  hour 
Was  hallow'd  to  his  heart  and  his  fair  child, 
And  none -might  seek  him.    And  the  king  arose, 
And  with  a  troubled  countenance  look'd  up 
To  the  fast-gathering  darkness  ;  and,  behold, 
The  servant  bow'd  himself  to  earth,  and  said, 
"  Nathan  the  prophet  cometh  from  the  Lord  !" 
And  David's  lips  grew  white,  and  with  a  clasp 
Which  wrung  a  murmur  from  the  frighted  child, 
He  drew  him  to  his  breast,  and  cover'd  him 
With  the  long  foldings  of  his  robe,  and  said, 
"  I  will  come  forth.    Go  now  !"    And  lingeringly, 
With  kisses  on  the  fair  uplifted  brow, 
And  mingled  words  of  tenderness  and  prayer 
Breaking  in  tremulous  accents  from  his  lips, 
He  gave  to  them  the  child,  and  bow'd  his  head 
Upon  his  breast  with  agony.    And  so, 
To  hear  the  errand  of  the  man  of  God, 
He  fearfully  went  forth. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day. 

A  hush  was  in  the  palace,  for  all  eyes 

Had  woke  before  the  morn  ;  and  they  who  drew 

The  curtains  to  let  in  the  welcome  light, 

Moved  in  their  chambers  with  unslipper'd  feet, 


FOR    HIS    CHILD.  23 


And  listen'd  breathlessly.    And  still  no  stir ! 
The  servants  who  kept  watch  without  the  door 
Sat  motionless  ;  the  purple  casement-shades 
|  From  the  low  windows  had  been  roll'd  away, 
|  To  give  the  child  air ;  and  the  flickering  light 
j  That,  all  the  night,  within  the  spacious  court, 
,  Had  drawn  the  watcher's  eyes  to  one  spot  only, 
'  Paled  with  the  sunrise  and  fled  in. 

And  hush'd 

;  With  more  than  stillness  was  the  room  where  lay 
:  The  king's  son  on  his  mother's  breast.    His  locks 
:   Slept  at  the  lips  of  Bathsheba  unstirr'd— 
]  So  fearfully,  with  heart  and  pulse  kept  down, 
She  watch'd  his  breathless  slumber.    The  low 

moan 

That  from  his  lips  all  night  broke  fitfully, 
Had  silenced  with  the  daybreak  ;  and  a  smile— 
Or  something  that  would  fain  have  been  a  smile— 
Play'd  in  his  parted  mouth  ;  and  though  his  lids 
Hid  not  the  blue  of  his  unconscious  eyes, 
His  senses  seem'd  all  peacefully  asleep, 
And  Bathsheba  in  silence  bless'd  the  morn— 
That  brought  back  hope  to  her  !    But  when  the 

king 

Heard  not  the  voice  of  the  complaining  child, 
1  Nor  breath  from  out  the  room,  nor  foot  astir— 


24  DAVID'S  GRIEF 

I  But  morning  there— so  weleomeless  and  still— 
;  He  groan'd  and  turn'd  upon  his  face.    The  nights 
|  Had  wasted  ;  and  the  mornings  come  ;  and  days 
I  Crept  through  the  sky,  unnumber'd  by  the  king, 
Since  the  child  sicken'd  ;  andr  without  the  door, 
Upon  the  bare  earth  prostrate,  he  had  Iain- 
Listening  only  to  the  moans  that  brought 
Their  inarticulate  tidings,  and  the  voice 
Of  Bathsheba,  whose  pity  and  caress, 
In  loving  utterance  all  broke  with  tears, 
Spoke  as  his  heart  would  speak  if  he  were  there, 
And  fill'd  his  prayer  with  agony.    Oh  God  ! 
To  thy  bright  mercy-seat  the  way  is  far  ! 
How  fail  the  weak  words  while  the  heart  keeps  on  ! 
And  when  the  spirit,  mournfully,  at  last, 
Kneels  at  thy  throne,  how  cold,  how  distantly 
The  comforting  of  friends  falls  on  the  ear — 
The  anguish  they  would  speak  to,  gone  to  Thee  ! 

But  suddenly  the  watchers  at  the  door 
Rose  up,  and  they  who  minister'd  within 
Crept  to  the  threshold  and  look'd  earnestly 
Where  the  king  lay.    And  still,  while  Bathsheoa 
Held  the  unmoving  child  upon  her  knees, 
The  curtains  were  let  down,  and  all  came  forth, 
And,  gathering  with  fearful  looks  apart, 
Whisper'd  together. 


FOR    HIS    CHILD.  25 

And  the  king  arose 

And  gazed  on  them  a  moment,  and  with  voice 
Of  quick,  uncertain  utterance,  he  ask'd, 
"  Is  the  child  dead  ?"    They  answer'd,  "  He  is 

dead  !" 

But  when  they  look'd  to  see  him  fall  again 
Upon  his  face,  and  rend  himself  and  weep— 
For,  while  the  child  was  sick,  his  agony 
Would  bear  no  comforters,  and  they  had  thought 
His  heartstrings  with  the  tidings  must  give  way — 
Behold  !  his  face  grew  calm,  and,  with  his  robe 
Gather'd  together  like  his  kingly  wont, 
He  silently  went  in. 

And  David  came, 

Robed  and  anointed,  forth,  and  to  the  house 
Of  God  went  up  to  pray.    And  he  return'd, 
And  they  set  bread  before  him,  and  he  ate— 
And  when  they  marvelPd,  he  said,   "  Wherefore 

mourn  1 

The  child  is  dead,  and  I  shall  go  to  him— 
But  he  will  not  return  to  me." 


26  THE    SACRIFICE 


2E|)e  Sacrifice  of  Sforafcam. 

MORN  breaketh  in  the  east.    The  purple  clouds 
Are  putting  on  their  gold  and  violet, 
To  look  the  meeter  for  the  sun's  bright  coming. 
Sleep  is  upon  the  waters  and  the  wind  ; 
And  nature,  from  the  wavy  forest-leaf 
To  her  majestic  master,  sleeps.    As  yet 
There  is  no  mist  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 
And  the  clear  dew  is  on  the  blushing  bosoms 
Of  crimson  roses  in  a  holy  rest. 
How  hallow'd  is  the  hour  of  morning  !  meet- 
Ay,  beautifully  meet— for  the  pure  prayer. 
The  patriarch  standeth  at  his  tented  door, 
With  his  white  locks  uncover'd.    'Tis  his  wont 
To  gaze  upon  that  gorgeous  Orient ; 
And  at  that  hour  the  awful  majesty 
Of  man  who  talketh  often  with  his  God, 
Is  wont  to  come  again,  and  clothe  his  brow 
As  at  his  fourscore  strength.   But  now,  he  seemcth 
To  be  forgetful  of  his  vigorous  frame, 
And  boweth  to  his  staff  as  at  the  hour 


OF    ABRAHAM.  27 

Of  noontide  sultriness.    And  that  bright  sun- 
He  looketh  at  its  pencill'd  messengers, 
Coming  in  golden  raiment,  as  if  all 
Were  but  a  graven  scroll  of  fearfulness. 
Ah,  he  is  waiting  till  it  herald  in 
The  hour  to  sacrifice  his  much-loved  son ! 

Light  poureth  on  the  world.    And  Sarah  stands 
Watching  the  steps  of  Abraham  and  her  child 
Along  the  dewy  sides  of  the  far  hills, 
And  praying  that  her  sunny  boy  faint  not. 
Would  she  have  watch'd  their  path  so  silently, 
If  she  had  known  that  he  was  going  up, 
E'en  in  his  fair-hair'd  beauty,  to  be  slain 
As  a  white  lamb  for  sacrifice  1    They  trod 
Together  onward,  patriarch  and  child — 
The  bright  sun  throwing  back  the  old  man's  shade 
In  straight  and  fair  proportions,  as  of  one 
Whose  years  were  freshly  number'd.  He  stood  up, 
Tall  in  his  vigorous  strength ;  and,  like  a  tree 
Rooted  in  Lebanon,  his  frame  bent  not. 
His  thin  white  hairs  had  yielded  to  the  wind, 
And  left  his  brow  uncover'd  ;  and  his  face, 
Impress'd  with  the  stern  majesty  of  grief 
Nerved  to  a  solemn  duty,  now  stood  forth 
Like  a  rent  rock,  submissive,  yet  sublime. 
But  the  young  boy- -he  of  the  laughing  eye 


28  THE    SACRIFICE 

And  ruby  lip — the  pride  of  life  was  on  him. 

He  seem'd  to  drink  the  morning.    Sun  and  dew, 

And  the  aroma  of  the  spicy  trees, 

And  all  that  giveth  the  delicious  East 

Its  fitness  for  an  Eden,  stole  like  light 

Into  his  spirit,  ravishing  his  thoughts 

With  love  and  beauty.    Every  thing  he  met, 

Buoyant  or  beautiful,  the  lightest  wing 

Of  bird  or  insect,  or  the  palest  dye 

Of  the  fresh  flowers,  won  him  from  his  path  ; 

And  joyously  broke  forth  his  tiny  shout, 

As  he  flung  back  his  silken  hair,  and  sprung 

Away  to  some  green  spot  or  clustering  vine, 

To  pluck  his  infant  trophies.    Every  tree 

And  fragrant  shrub  was  a  new  hiding-place  ; 

And  he  would  crouch  till  the  old  man  came  by, 

Then  bound  before  him  with  his  childish  laugh, 

Stealing  a  look  behind  him  playfully, 

To  see  if  he  had  made  his  father  smile. 

The  sun  rode  on  in  heaven.    The  dew  stole  up 

From  the  fresh  daughters  of  the  earth,  and  heat 

Came  like  a  sleep  upon  the  delicate  leaves, 

And  bent  them  with  the  blossoms  to  their  dreams. 

Still  trod  the  patriarch  on,  with  that  same  step, 

Firm  and  unfaltering  ;  turning  not  aside 

To  seek  the  olive  shades,  or  lave  their  lips 

In  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Syrian  wells, 


OF    ABRAHAM.  29 

Whose  gush  hath  so  much  music.    Weariness 

Stole  on  the  gentle  boy,  and  he  forgot 

To  toss  his  stinny  hair  from  off  his  brow, 

And  spring  for  the  fresh  flowers  and  light  wings 

As  in  the  early  morning ;  but  he  kept 

Close  by  his  father's  side,  and  bent  his  head 

Upon  his  bosom  like  a  drooping  bud, 

Lifting  it  not,  save  now  and  then  to  steal 

A  look  up  to  the  face  whose  sternness  awed 

His  childishness  to  silence. 

It  was  noon — 

And  Abraham  on  Moriah  bow'd  himself, 
And  buried  up  his  face,  and  pray'd  for  strength. 
He  could  not  look  upon  his  son,  and  pray  ; 
But,  with  his  hand  upon  the  clustering  curls 
Of  the  fair,  kneeling  boy,  he  pray'd  that  God 
Would  nerve  him  for  that  hour.    Oh  !  man  was 

made 

For  the  stern  conflict.    In  a  mother's  love 
There  is  more  tenderness  ;  the  thousand  chords, 
Woven  with  every  fibre  of  her  heart, 
Complain,  like  delicate  harp-strings,  at  a  breath ; 
But  love  in  man  is  one  deep  principle, 
Which,  like  a  root  grown  in  a  rifted  rock, 
Abides  the  tempest.    He  rose  up,  and  laid 
The  wood  upon  the  altar.    All  was  done. 


30  THE    SACRIFICE    OF    ABRAHAM. 


He  stood  a  moment — and  a  deep,  quick  flush 
Pass'd  o'er  his  countenance  ;  and  then  he  nerved 
His  spirit  with  a  bitter  strength,  and  spoke— 
"  Isaac  !  my  only  son  !"— The  boy  look'd  up, 
And  Abraham  turn'd  his  face  away,  and  wept. 
"  Where  is  the  lamb,  m>  father?" — Oh  the  tones, 
The  sweet,  the  thrilling  music  of  a  child  !— 
How  it  doth  agonize  at  such  an  hour  !— 
It  was  the  last  deep  struggle.    Abraham  held 
His  loved,  his  beautiful,  his  only  son, 
And  lifted  up  his  arm,  and  call'd  on  God— 
And  lo  !  God's  angel  stay'd  him— and  he  fell 
Upon  his  face,  and  wept. 


I __J_  _] 


THE    SirUNAMMITE.  31 


2T|)e  JSfwnammfte. 

IT  was  a  sultry  day  of  summer-time. 

The  sun  pour'd  down  upon  the  ripen'd  grain 

With  quivering  heat,  and  the  suspended  leaves 

Hung  motionless.    The  cattle  on  the  hills 

Stood  still,  and  the  divided  flock  were  all 

Laying  their  nostrils  to  the  cooling  roots, 

And  the  sky  look'd  like  silver,  and  it  seem'd 

As  if  the  air  had  fainted,  and  the  pulse 

Of  nature  had  run  down,  and  ceased  to  beat. 

"  Haste  thee,  my  child  !"  the  Syrian  mother  said, 
"  Thy  father  is  athirst"— and,  from  the  depths 
Of  the  cool  well  under  the  leaning  tree, 
She  drew  refreshing  water,  and  with  thoughts 
Of  God's  sweet  goodness  stirring  at  her  heart, 
She  bless'd  her  beautiful  boy,  and  to  his  way 
Committed  him.    And  he  went  lightly  on, 
With  his  soft  hands  press'd  closely  to  the  cool 
Stone  vessel,  and  his  little  naked  feet 
Lifted  with  watchful  care  ;  and  o'er  the  hills, 


j   32  THE    SHUNAMMITE. 

j — 

j  And  through  the  light  green  hollows  where  the 

lambs 

Go  for  the  tender  grass,  he  kept  his  way, 
Wiling  its  distance  with  his  simple  thoughts. 
Till,  in  the  wilderness  of  sheaves,  with  brows 
Throbbing  with  heat,  he  set  his  burden  down. 

Childhood  is  restless  ever,  and  the  boy 
Stay'd  not  within  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
I  But  with  a  joyous  industry  went  forth 
i  Into  the  reapers'  places,  and  bound  up 
]  His  tiny  sheaves,  and  plaited  cunningly 
|  The  pliant  withs  out  of  the  shining  straw — 
i  Cheering  their  labor  on,  till  they  forgot 
I  The  heat  and  weariness  of  their  stooping  toil 
i  In  the  beguiling  of  his  playful  mirth. 
|  Presently  he  was  silent,  and  his  eye 
Closed  as  with  dizzy  pain,  and  with  his  hand 
Press'd  hard  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  breast 
Heaving  with  the  suppression  of  a  cry, 
He  utter'd  a  faint  murmur,  and  fell  back 
Upon  the  loosen'd  sheaf,  insensible. 

They  bore  him  to  his  motherland  he  lay 
Upon  her  knees  till  noon — and  then  he  died ! 
j  She  had  watch'd  every  breath,  and  kept  her  hand 
;  Soft  on  his  forehead,  and  gazed  in  upon 


THE    SHUNAMMITE.  33 


The  dreamy  languor  of  his  listless  eye, 
And  she  had  laid  back  all  his  sunny  curls 
And  kiss'd  his  delicate  lip,  and  lifted  him 
Into  her  bosom,  till  her  heart  grew  strong — 
His  beauty  was  so  unlike  death  !    She  lean'd 
Over  him  now,  that  she  might  catch  the  low 
Sweet  music  of  his  breath,  that  she  had  learn'd 
To  love  when  he  was  slumbering  at  her  side 
In  his  unconscious  infancy — 

"  —So  still ! 

'Tis  a  soft  sleep  !    How  beautiful  he  lies, 
With  his  fair  forehead,  £nd  the  rosy  veins 
Playing  so  freshly  in  his  sunny  cheek ! 
How  could  they  say  that  he  would  die  !  Oh  God ! 
I  could  not  lose  him  !  I  have  treasured  all 
His  childhood  in  my  heart,  and  even  now, 
As  he  has  slept,  my  memory  has  been  there, 
Counting  like  treasures  all  his  winning  ways — 
His  unforgotten  sweetness  :— 

"  —Yet  so  still  !— 

How  like  this  breathless  slumber  is  to  death ! 
I  could  believe  that  in  that  bosom  now 
There  were  no  pulse— it  beats  so  languidly  .' 
I  cannot  see  it  stir  ;  but  his  red  lip  ! 
Death  would  not  be  so  very  beautiful ! 
And  that  half  smile— would  death  hare  left  that 
there  ? 


3 


34  THE    SHUNAMMITE. 


— And  should  I  not  have  felt  that  he  would  die  ? 
And  have  I  not  wept  over  him  ? — and  pray'd 
Morning  and  night  for  him  1  and  could  he  die  1 
—No— God  will  keep  him  !    He  will  be  my  pride 
Many  long  years  to  come,  and  his  fair  hair 
Will  darken  like  his  father's,  and  his  eye 
Be  of  a  deeper  blue  when  he  is  grown  ; 
And  he  will  be  so  tall,  and  I  shall  look 
With  such  a  pride  upon  him  ! — He  to  die  !" 
And  the  fond  mother  lifted  his  soft  curls, 
And  smiled,  as  if  'twere  mockery  to  think 
That  such  fair  things  could  perish — 

— Suddenly 

Her  hand  shrunk  from  him,  and  the  color  fled 
From  her  fix'd  lip,  and  her  supporting  knees 
Were  shook  beneath  her  child.    Her  hand  had 

touch'd 

His  forehead,  as  she  dallied  with  his  hair— 
And  it  was  cold— like  clay  !     Slow,  very  slow, 
Came  the  misgiving  that  her  child  was  dead. 
She  sat  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  were  closed 
In  a  dumb  prayer  for  strength,  and  then  she  took 
His  little  hand  and  press'd  it  earnestly— 
,And  put  her  lip  to  his— and  look'd  again 
Fearfully  on  him— and,  then  bending  low, 
She  whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "  My  son  ! — my  son  !" 
And  as  the  echo  died,  and  not  a  sound 


THE    SHUNAMMITE.  35 

Broke  on  the  stillness,  and  he  lay  there  still — 
Motionless  on  her  knee — the  truth  would  come  ! 
And  with  a  sharp,  quick  cry,  as  if  her  heart 
Were  crush'd,  she  lifted  him  and  held  him  close 
Into  her  bosom — with  a  mother's  thought — 
As  if  death  had  no  power  to  touch  him  there  ! 

The  man  of  God  came  forth,  and  led  the  child 
Unto  his  mother,  and  went  on  his  way. 
And  he  was  there — her  beautiful — her  own — 
Living  and  smiling  on  her — with  his  arms 
Folded  about  her  neck,  and  his  warm  breath 
Breathing  upon  her  lips,  and  in  her  ear 
The  music  of  his  gentle  voice  once  more  ! 


36  JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER. 


SHE  stood  before  her  father's  gorgeous  tent, 
To  listen  for  his  coming.    Her  loose  hair 
Was  resting  on  her  shoulders,  like  a  cloud 
Floating  around  a  statue,  and  the  wind, 
Just  swaying  her  light  robe,  reveal'd  a  shape 
Praxiteles  might  worship.    She  had  clasp'd 
Her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  had  raised 
Her  beautiful,  dark,  Jewish  eyes  to  heaven, 
Till  the  long  lashes  lay  upon  her  brow. 
Her  lip  was  slightly  parted,  like  the  cleft 
Of  a  pomegranate  blossom  ;  and  her  neck, 
Just  where  the  cheek  was  melting  to  its  curve 
With  the  unearthly  beauty  sometimes  there, 
Wras  shaded,  as  if  light  had  fallen  off, 
Its  surface  was  so  polish'd.    She  was  stilling 
Her  light,  quick  breath,  to  hear ;   and  the  white 

rose 

Scarce  moved  upon  her  bosom,  as  it  swell'd, 
Like  nothing  but  a  lovely  wave  of  light, 
To  meet  the  arclu'ng  of  her  queenly  neck. 


JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER.  37 


Her  countenance  was  radiant  with  love. 

She  look'd  like  one  to  die  for  it— a  being 

Whose  whole  existence  was  the  pouring  out 

Of  rich  and  deep  affections.    I  have  thought 

A  brother's  and  a  sister's  love  were  much  ; 

I  know  a  brother's  is— for  I  have  been 

A  sister's  idol— and  I  know  how  full 

The  heart  may  be  of  tenderness  to  her  ! 

But  the  affection  of  a  delicate  child 

For  a  fond  father,  gushing,  as  it  does, 

With  the  sweet  springs  of  life,  and  pouring  on, 

Through  all  earth's  changes,  like  a  river's  course — 

Chasten'd  with  reverence,  and  made  more  pure 

By  the  world's  discipline  of  light  and  shade — 

'Tis  deeper — holier. 

The  wind  bore  on 

The  leaden  tramp  of  thousands.    Clarion  notes 
Rang  sharply  on  the  ear  at  intervals  ; 
And  the  low,  mingled  din  of  mighty  hosts 
Returning  from  the  battle,  pour'd  from  far, 
Like  the  deep  murmur  of  a  restless  sea. 
They  came,  as  earthly  conquerors  always  come, 
With  blood  and  splendor,  revelry  and  wo. 
The  stately  horse  treads  proudly— he  hath  trod 
The  brow  of  death,  as  well.    The  chariot-wheels 
Of  warriors  roll  magnificently  on — 
Their  weight  hath  crush'd  the  fallen.  Man  is  there— 


38  JEPHTHAIl's    DAUGHTER. 


Majestic,  lordly  man— with  his  sublime 
And  elevated  brow,  and  godlike  frame  ; 
Lifting  his  crest  in  triumph — for  his  heel 
Hath  trod  the  dying  like  a  wine-press  down  ! 

The  mighty  Jephthah  led  his  warriors  on 
Through  Mizpeh's  streets.  His  helm  was  proudly 

set, 

And  his  stern  lip  curl'd  slightly,  as  if  praise 
Were  for  the  hero's  scorn.    His  step  was  firm, 
But  free  as  India's  leopard  ;  and  his  mail, 
Whose  shekels  none  in  Israel  might  bear, 
Was  like  a  cedar's  tassel  on  his  frame. 
His  crest  was  Judah's  kingliest ;  arid  the  look 
Of  his  dark,  lofty  eye,  and  bended  brow, 
Might  quell  the  lion.    He  led  on  ;  but  thoughts 
Seern'd  gathering  round  which  troubled  him.    The 

veins 

Grew  visible  upon  his  swarthy  brow, 
And  his  proud  lip  was  press'd  as  if  with  pain. 
He  trod  less  firmly  ;  and  his  restless  eye 
Glanced  forward  frequently,  as  if  some  ill 
He  dared  not  meet,  were  there.    His  home  was 

near ; 

And  men  were  thronging,  with  that  strange  delight 
They  have  in  human  passions,  to  observe 
The  struggle  of  his  feelings  with  his  pride 


JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER.  39 


He  gazed  intensely  forward.    The  tail  firs 

Before  his  tent  were  motionless.    The  leaves 

Of  the  sweet  aloe,  and  the  clustering  vines 

Which  half  conceal'd  his  threshold,  met  his  eye, 

Unchanged  and  beautiful ;  and  one  by  one, 

The  balsam,  with  its  sweet-distilling  stems, 

And  the  Circassian  rose,  and  all  the  crowd 

Of  silent  and  familiar  things  stole  up, 

Like  the  recover'd  passages  of  dreams. 

He  strode  on  rapidly.    A  moment  more, 

And  he  had  reach'd  his  home ;  when  lo  !  there 

sprang 

One  with  a  bounding  footstep,  and  a  brow 
Of  light,  to  meet  him.     Oh  how  beautiful ! — 
Her  dark  eye  flashing  like  a  sun-lit  gem— 
And  her  luxuriant  hair  ! — 'twas  like  the  sweep 
Of  a  swift  wing  in  visions.    He  stood  still, 
As  if  the  sight  had  wither'd  him.    She  threw 
Her  arms  about  his  neck — he  heeded  not. 
She  call'd  him  "  Father''— but  he  answer'd  not. 
She  stood  and  gazed  upon  him.    Was  he  wroth  ? 
There  was  no  anger  in  that  blood-shot  eye. 
Ha  1  sickness  seized  him  ?    She  unclasp'd  his  helm, 
And  laid  her  white  hand  gently  on  his  brow, 
And  the  large  veins  felt  stiff  and  hard,  like  cords. 
The  touch  aroused  him.    He  raised  up  his  hands, 
And  spoke  the  name  of  God,  in  agony. 


40  JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER. 


She  knew  that  he  was  stricken,  then  ;  and  rush'd 

Again  into  his  arms ;  and,  with  a  flood 

Of  tears  she  could  not  bridle,  sobb'd  a  prayer 

That  he  would  breathe  his  agony  in  words. 

He  told  her — and  a  momentary  flush 

Shot  o'er  her  countenance  ;  and  then  the  soul 

Of  Jephthah's  daughter  waken'd  ;  and  she  stood 

Calmly  and  nobly  up,  and  said  'twas  well — 

And  she  would  die.        ***** 

The  sun  had  well  nigh  set. 
The  fire  was  on  the  altar  ;  and  the  priest 
Of  the  High  God  was  there.    A  palLd  mail 
Was  stretching  out  his  trembling  hands  to  heaven, 
As  if  he  would  have  pray'd,  but  had  no  words — 
And  she  who  was  to  die,  the  calmest  one 
In  Israel  at  that  hour,  stood  up  alone, 
And  waited  for  the  sun  to  set.    Her  face 
Was  pale,  but  very  beautiful— her  lip 
Had  a  more  delicate  outline,  and  the  tint 
Was  deeper ;  but  her  countenance  was  like 
The  majesty  of  angels. 

The  sun  set — 
And  she  was  dead— but  not  by  violence 


41 


THE  waters  slept.    Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curl'd 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream;  the  willow 

leaves, 

With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds  ;  and  the  long  stems, 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way, 
And  lean'd,  in  graceful  attitudes,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashion'd  for  a  happier  world  ! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.    He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  ;  arid  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.    The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 


The  pall  was  settled.    He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  siraighten'd  for  the  grave  ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sunk  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betray'd 


42  ABSALOM. 

I 

The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  bad  not  felt 

That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 

They  gather'd  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 

And  spoke  their  kindly  words  ;  and,  as  the  sun 

Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 

And  bow'd  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 

Oh  !  when  the  heart  is  full — wnen  bitter  thoughts 

Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 

And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 

Are  such  a  very  mockery— how  much 

The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer  ! 

He  pray'd  for  Israel— and  his  voice  went  up 

Strongly  and  fervently.    He  pray'd  for  those 

Whose  love  had  been  his  shield— and  his  deep 

tones 

Grew  tremulous.    But,  oh !  for  Absalom— 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherish'd  him— for  him  he  pour'd, 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 
Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there, 
Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  smfulness. 


ABSALOM.  43 

The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 

His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 

Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  sway'd 

To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 

As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 

The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  daughters. 

His  helm  was  at  his  feet :  his  banner,  soil'd 

With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid. 

Reversed,  beside  him  :  and  the  jewell'd  hilt, 

Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 

Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  cover'd  brow. 

The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 

Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle  ;  and  their  chief, 

The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 

And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly, 

As  if  he  fear'd  the  slumberer  might  stir. 

A  slow  step  startled  him.    He  grasp'd  his  blade 

As  if  a  trumpet  rang  ;  but  the  bent  form 

Of  David  enter'd,  and  he  gave  command, 

In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers, 

And  left  him  with  his  dead.    The  king  stood  still 

Till  the  last  echo  died  ;  then,  throwing  off 

The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 

He  bow'd  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 

In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  wo : 


44 


"  Alas  !  my  noble  boy  !  that  thou  shouldst  die ! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair ! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair ! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb ! 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom ! 

"  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son  !  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee  ! 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet '  my  father ."  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  ! 

"  But  death  is  on  thee.    I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young  ; 

And  life  wrill  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung ; — 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shall  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom  ! 

"  And  oh  !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  1  depart, 
Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token ! 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 


ABSALOM.  45 

"  And  now,  farewell !    'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee  ; — 

And  thy  dark  sin  !— Oh !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  wo  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  call'd  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy  Absalom  !" 

He  cover'd  up  his  face,  and  bow'd  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child :  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasp'd 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer  ; 
And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently— and  left  him  there— 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


46  CHRIST'S  ENTRANCE 


(Efmst's  Entrance  into  Serusalem. 

HE  sat  upon  the  "  ass's  foal"  and  rode 
Toward  Jerusalem.    Beside  him  walk'd, 
Closely  and  silently,  the  faithful  twelve, 
And  on  before  him  went  a  multitude 
Shouting  Hosannas,  and  with  eager  hands 
Strewing  their  garments  thickly  in  his  way. 
Th'  unbroken  foal  beneath  him  gently  stepp'd, 
Tame  as  its  patient  dam ;  and  as  the  song 
Of  "  welcome  to  the  Son  of  David"  burst 
Forth  from  a  thousand  children,  and  the  leaves 
Of  the  waved  branches  touch'd  its  silken  ears, 
It  turn'd  its  wild  eye  for  a  moment  back, 
And  then,  subdued  by  an  invisible  hand, 
Meekly  trode  onward  with  its  slender  feet. 

The  dew's  last  sparkle  from  the  grass  had  gone 
As  he  rode  up  Mount  Olivet.    The  woods 
Threw  their  cool  shadows  freshly  to  the  west, 
And  the  light  foal,  with  quick  and  toiling  step, 
And  head  bent  low,  kept  its  unslacken'd  way 


— I 

INTO    JERUSALEM.  47 

Till  its  soft  mane  was  lifted  by  the  wind 
Sent  o'er  the  mount  from  Jordan.    As  he  reach'd 
j   The  summit's  breezy  pitch,  the  Saviour  raised 
j   His  calm  blue  eye — there  stood  Jerusalem  ! 
|  Eagerly  he  bent  forward,  and  beneath 
I  His  mantle's  passive  folds,  a  bolder  line 
I   Than  the  wont  slightness  of  his  perfect  limbs 
j  Betray'd  the  swelling  fulness  of  his  heart. 
i   There  stood  Jerusalem  !    How  fair  she  look'd — 
|   The  silver  sun  on  all  her  palaces, 
j  And  her  fair  daughters  'mid  the  golden  spires 
j  Tending  their  terrace  flowers,  and  Kedron's  stream 
j  Laciag  the  meadows  with  its  silver  band, 
!  And  wreathing  its  mist-mantle  on  the  sky 
|  With  the  morn's  exhalations.    There  she  stood — 
j  Jerusalem— the  city  of  his  love, 
Chosen  from  all  the  earth  ;  Jerusalem — 
That  knew  him  not— and  had  rejected  him  ; 
j  Jerusalem — for  whom  he  came  to  die  ! 
|  The  shouts  redoubled  from  a  thousand  lips 
!  At  the  fair  sight ;  the  children  leap'd  and  sang 
Louder  Hosannas  ;  the  clear  air  was  fill'd 
With  odor  from  the  trampled  olive-leaves — 
But  "  Jesus  wept."    The  loved  disciple  saw 
j  His  Master's  tears,  and  closer  to  his  side 
'  He  came  with  yearning  looks,  and  on  his  neck 
j  The  Saviour  leant  with  heavenly  tenderness, 


48  CHRIST'S  ENTRANCE 


And  mourn'd— "  How  oft,  Jerusalem  !  would  I 

Have  gather'd  you,  as  gathereth  a  hen 

Her  brood  beneath  her  wings— but  ye  would  not !" 

He  thought  not  of  the  death  that  he  should  die- 
He  thought  not  of  the  thorns  he  knew  must  pierce 
His  forehead— of  the  buffet  on  the  cheek— 
The    scourge,   the    mocking   homage,   the    foul 

scorn  !— 

Gethsemane  stood  out  beneath  his  eye 
Clear  in  the  morning  sun,  and  there,  he  knew, 
While  they  who  "  could  not  watch  with  him  one 

hour" 
Were  sleeping,  he  should  sweat  great  drops  of 

blood, 

Praying  the  "  cup  might  pass."    And  Golgotha 
Stood  bare  and  desert  by  the  city  wall, 
And  in  its  midst,  to  his  prophetic  eye, 
Rose  the  rough  cross,  and  its  keen  agonies 
Were  number'd  all— the  nails  were  in  his  feet— 
Th'  insulting  sponge  was  pressing  on  his  lips— 
The  blood  and  water  gushing  from  his  side— 
The  dizzy  faintness  swimming  in  his  brain— 
And,  while  his  own  disciples  fled  in  fear, 
A  world's  death-agonies  all  mix'd  in  his  ! 
Ay  ! — he  forgot  all  this.    He  only  saw 
Jerusalem, — the  chos'n—  the  loved — the  lost ! 


INTO    JERUSALEM.  49    j 

j  i 

|  He  only  felt  that  for  her  sake  his  life 

j  Was  vainly  giv'n,  and,  in  his  pitying  love, 

!  The  sufferings  that  would  clothe  the  Heavens  in 

black, 

!  Were  quite  forgotten.    Was  there  ever  love, 
•  In  earth  or  heaven,  equal  unto  this  1 


50  BAPTISM    OF    CHRIST. 


3Saj)tfom  of 


IT  was  a  green  spot  in  the  wilderness, 
Touch'd  by  the  river  Jordan.    The  dark  pine 
Never  had  dropp'd  its  tassels  on  the  moss 
Tufting  the  leaning  bank,  nor  on  the  grass 
Of  the  broad  circle  stretching  evenly 
To  the  straight  larches,  had  a  heavier  foot 
Than  the  wild  heron's  trodden.    Softly  in 
Through  a  long  aisle  of  willows,  dim  and  cool, 
Stole  the  clear  waters  with  their  muffled  feet, 
And,  hushing  as  they  spread  into  the  light, 
Circled  the  edges  of  the  pebbled  tank 
Slowly,  then  rippled  through  the  woods  away. 
Hither  had  come  th'  Apostle  of  the  wild, 
Winding  the  river's  course.    'Twas  near  the  flush 
Of  eve,  and,  with  a  multitude  around, 
Who  from  the  cities  had  come  out  to  hear, 
He  stood  breast-high  amid  the  running  stream, 
Baptizing  as  the  Spirit  gave  him  power. 
His  simple  raiment  was  of  camel's  hair, 
A  leathern  girdle  close  about  his  loins, 


BAPTISM    OF    CHRIST.  51 

His  beard  unshorn,  and  for  his  daily  meat 
The  locust  and  wild  honey  of  the  wood — 
But  like  the  face  of  Moses  on  the  mount 
Shone  his  rapt  countenance,  and  in  his  eye 
Burn'd  the  mild  fire  of  love — and  as  he  spoke 
The  ear  lean'd  to  him,  and  persuasion  swift 
To  the  chain'd  spirit  of  the  listener  stole 

Silent  upon  the  green  and  sloping  bank 
The  people  sat,  and  while  the  leaves  were  shook 
With  the  birds  dropping  early  to  their  nests. 
And  the  gray  eve  came  on,  within  their  hearts 
They  mused  if  he  were  Christ.     The  rippling 

stream 

Still  turn'd  its  silver  courses  from  his  breast 
As  he  divined  their  thought.    "  I  but  baptize," 
He  said,  "  with  water ;  but  there  cometh  One, 
The  latchet  of  whose  shoes  I  may  not  dare 
E'en  to  unloose.    He  will  baptize  with  fire 
And  with  the  Holy  Ghost."    And  lo  !  while  yet 
The  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  raised  his  eyes. 
And  on  the  bank  stood  Jesus.    He  had  laid 
His  raiment  off,  and  with  his  loins  alone 
Girt  with  a  mantle,  and  his  perfect  limbs, 
In  their  angelic  slightness,  meek  and  bare, 
He  waited  to  go  in.    But  John  forbade, 
And  hurried  to  his  feet  and  stay'd  him  there, 


52  BAPTISM    OF    CHRIST. 


And  said,  "  Nay,  Master  !  I  have  need  of  thine, 

Not  thou  of  mine .'"    And  Jesus,  with  a  smile 

Of  heavenly  sadness,  met  his  earnest  looks, 

And  answer'd,  "  Suffer  it  to  be  so  now  ; 

For  thus  it  doth  become  me  to  fulfil 

All  righteousness."    And,  leaning  to  the  stream, 

He  took  around  him  the  Apostle's  arm, 

And  drew  him  gently  to  the  midst.    The  wood 

Was  thick  with  the  dim  twilight  as  they  came 

Up  from  the  water.    With  his  clasped  hands 

Laid  on  his  breast,  th'  Apostle  silently 

Follow'd  his  master's  steps— when  lo  !  a  light, 

Bright  as  the  tenfold  glory  of  the  sun, 

Yet  lambent  as  the  softly  burning  stars, 

Envelop'd  them,  and  from  the  heavens  away 

Parted  the  dim  blue  ether  like  a  veil ; 

Arid  as  a  voice,  fearful  exceedingly, 

Broke  from  the  midst,  "  THIS  is  MY  MUCH  LOVED 

SON 

IN  WHOM  I  AM  WELL  PLEASED,"  a  snow-white  dove, 
Floating  upon  its  wings,  descended  through  ; 
And  shedding  a  swift  music  from  its  plumes, 
Circled,  and  flutter'd  to  the  Saviour's  breast. 


SCENE    IN    GETHSEMANE.  53 


Scene  fit  <£et!)$emane. 

THE  moon  was  shining  yet.    The  Orient's  brow, 
Set  with  the  morning-star,  was  not  yet  dim  ; 
And  the  deep  silence  which  subdues  the  breath 
Like  a  strong  feeling,  hung  upon  the  world 
As  sleep  upon  the  pulses  of  a  child. 
'Twas  the  last  watch  of  night.    Gethsemane, 
With  its  bathed  leaves  of  silver,  seem'd  dissolved 
In  visible  stillness  ;  and  as  Jesus'  voice, 
With  its  bewildering  sweetness,  met  the  ear 
Of  his  disciples,  it  vibrated  on 
Like  the  first  whisper  in  a  silent  world. 
They  came  on  slowly.    Heaviness  oppress'd 
The  Saviour's  heart,  and  when  the  kindnesses 
Of  his  deep  love  were  pour'd,  he  felt  the  need 
Of  near  communion,  for  his  gift  of  strength 
Was  wasted  by  the  spirit's  weariness. 
He  left  them  there,  and  went  a  little  on, 
And  in  the  depth  of  that  hush'd  silentness, 
Alone  with  God,  he  fell  upon  his  face, 
And  as  his  heart  was  broken  with  the  rush 


54  SCENE  IN    GETHSEMANE. 

Of  his  surpassing  agony,  and  death, 

Wrung  to  him  from  a  dying  universe, 

Was  mightier  than  the  Son  of  man  could  bear, 

He  gave  his  sorrows  way — and  in  the  deep 

Prostration  of  his  soul,  breathed  out  the  prayer, 

"  Father,  if  it  be  possible  with  thee, 

Let  this  cup  pass  from  me."    Oh,  how  a  word, 

Like  the  forced  drop  before  the  fountain  breaks, 

Stilleth  the  press  of  human  agony  ! 

The  Saviour  felt  its  quiet  in  his  soul ; 

And  though  his  strength  was  weakness,  and  the 

light 

\Vhich  led  him  on  till  now  was  sorely  dim, 
He  breathed  a  new  submission—"  Not  my  will, 
But  thine  be  done,  oh  Father  !"    As  he  spoke, 
Voices  were  heard  in  heaven,  and  music  stole 
Out  from  the  chambers  of  the  vaulted  sky 
As  if  the  stars  were  swept  like  instruments. 
No  cloud  was  visible,  but  rftdiant  wings 
Were  coming  with  a  silvery  rush  to  earth, 
And  as  the  Saviour  rose,  a  glorious  one, 
With  an  illumined  forehead,  and  the  light 
Whose  fountain  is  the  mystery  of  God, 
Encalm'd  within  his  eye,  bow'd  down  to  him, 
And  nerved  him  with  a  ministry  of  strength. 
It  was  enough— and  with  his  godlike  brow 
Re-written  of  his  Father's  messenger, 


SCENE    IN    GETIISEMANE.  55 

With  meekness,  whose  divinity  is  more 
Than  power  and  glory,  he  return'd  again 
To  his  disciples,  and  awaked  their  sleep, 
For  "  he  that  should  betray  him  was  at  hand." 


56  THE    WIDOW    OF    NAIN. 


2Tf)e  SUfooto  of  Wafn, 

THE  Roman  sentinel  stood  helm'd  and  tall 
Beside  the  gate  of  Nain.    The  busy  tread 
Of  comers  to  the  city  mart  was  done, 
For  it  was  almost  noon,  and  a  dead  heat 
Quiver'd  upon  the  fine  and  sleeping  dust, 
And  the  cold  snake  crept  panting  from  the  wall, 
And  bask'd  his  scaly  circles  in  the  sun. 
Upon  his  spear  the  soldier  lean'd,  and  kept 
His  idle  watch,  and,  as  his  drowsy  dream 
Was  broken  by  the  solitary  foot 
Of  some  poor  mendicant,  he  raised  his  head 
To  curse  him  for  a  tributary  Jew, 
And  slumberously  dozed  on. 

'Twas  now  high  noon. 
The  dull,  low  murmur  of  a  funeral 
Went  through  the  city — the  sad  sound  of  feet 
Unmix'd  with  voices— and  the  sentinel 
Shook  off  his  slumber,  arid  gazed  earnestly 
Up  the  wide  streets  along  whose  paved  way 


THE    WIDOW    OF    NAIN.  57 


The  silent  throng  crept  slowly.    They  came  on, 
Bearing  a  body  heavily  on  its  bier, 
And  by  the  crowd  that  in  the  burning  sun, 
Walk'd  with  forgetful  sadness,  'twas  of  one 
Mourn'd  with  uncommon  sorrow.    The  broad  gate 
Swung  on  its  hinges,  and  the  Roman  bent 
His  spear-point  downwards  as  the  bearers  pass'd, 
Bending  beneath  their  burden.    There  was  one- 
Only  one  mourner.    Close  behind  the  bier, 
Crumpling  the  pall  up  in  her  wither'd  hands, 
Follow'd  an  aged  woman.    Her  short  steps 
Falter'd  with  weakness,  and  a  broken  moan 
Fell  from  her  lips,  thicken'd  convulsively 
As  her  heart  bled  afresh.    The  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  apart,  but  no  one  spoke  to  her. 
She  had  no  kinsmen.    She  had  lived  alone— 
A  widow  with  one  son.    He  was  her  all— 
The  only  tie  she  had  in  the  wide  world— 
And  he  was  dead.    They  could  not  comfort  her. 

Jesus  d/ew  near  to  Nain  as  from  the  gate 
The  funeral  came  forth.    His  lips  were  pale 
With  the  noon's  sultry  heat.    The  beaded  sweat 
Stood  ih'ckly  on  his  brow,  and  on  the  worn 
And  simple  latchets  of  his  sandals  lay, 
Thick,  the  while  dust  of  travel.    He  had  come 
Since  sunrise  from  Capernaum,  staying  not 


58  THE    WIDOW    OF    NAIN. 

To  wet  his  lips  by  green  Bethsaida's  pool, 
Nor  wash  his  feet  in  Kishon's  silver  springs, 
Nor  turn  him  southward  upon  Tabor's  side 
To  catch  Gilboa's  light  and  spicy  breeze. 
Genesareth  stood  cool  upon  the  East, 
Fast  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  and  there 
The  weary  traveller  might  bide  till  eve  ; 
And  on  the  alders  of  Bethulia's  plains 
The  grapes  of  Palestine  hung  ripe  and  wild ; 
Yet  turn'd  he  not  aside,  but,  gazing  on, 
From  every  swelling  mount  he  saw  afar, 
Amid  the  hills,  the  humble  spires  of  Nain, 
The  place  of  his  next  errand  ;  and  the  path 
Touch'd  not  Bethulia,  and  a  league  away 
Upon  the  East  lay  pleasant  Galilee. 

Forth  from  the  city-gate  the  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  the  stricken  mourner.    They  came  near 
The  place  of  burial,  and,  with  straining  hands, 
Closer  upon  her  breast  she  clasp'd  the  pall, 
And  with  a  gasping  sob,  quick  as  a  child's, 
And  an  inquiring  wildness  flashing  through 
The  thin  gray  lashes  of  her  fever'd  eyes, 
She  came  where  Jesus  stood  beside  the  way. 
He  look'd  upon  her,  and  his  heart  was  moved. 
41  Weep  not !"  he  said ;  and  as  they  stay'd  the  bier, 
And  at  his  bidding  laid  it  at  his  feet, 


THE    WIDOW    OF   NAIN.  59 


He  gently  drew  the  pall  from  out  her  grasp, 
And  laid  it  back  in  silence  from  the  dead. 
With  troubled  wonder  the  mute  throng  drew  near, 
And  gazed  on  his  calm  looks.    A  minute's  space 
He  stood  and  pray'd.    Then,  taking  the  cold  hand, 
He  said,  "  Arise  !"    And  instantly  the  breast 
Heaved  in  its  cerements,  and  a  sudden  flush 
Ran  through  the  lines  of  the  divided  lips, 
And  with  a  murmur  of  his  mother's  name, 
He  trembled  and  sat  upright  in  his  shroud. 
And,  while  the  mourner  hung  upon  his  neck, 
Jesus  went  calmly  on  his  way  to  Nain. 


GO  HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS. 


fit  tfje  OT  fitter  ness. 

THE  morning  broke.    Light  stole  upon  the  clouds  , 
With  a  strange  beauty.    Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dyes  ;  and  leaves, 
!  And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
j  And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew  ; 
I  And  stirre.h  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow  ;  and  the  light 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.    The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odors  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  singing  as  if  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them  ;  but  oh  !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.   Her  lips  were  press'd 
Till  the  blood  started  ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swell'd  out, 


HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS.  61 

As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.    Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back, 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasp'd  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  train'd  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
Sandall'd  for  journeying.    He  had  look'd  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  dimpled  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straighten'd  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swell'd, 
Had  they  but  match'd  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily  1    His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  God, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there  ;  and,  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
Oh  !  man  may  bear  with  suffering :  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike,  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality  ;  but  tear 


62  HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS. 


One  chord  affection  clings  to— part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love— 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand 
In  silent  blessing  on  the  fair-hair'd  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness 

Should  Hagar  weep  ?  May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  leaning  trust  again  ? 
0  no  !  by  all  her  loveliness— by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no  ! 
Make  her  a  slave  :  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies  ;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain  ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness— yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But  oh  !  estrange  her  once— it  boots  not  how — 
By  wrong  or  silence— any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness,— 
And  there  is  not  a  feeling  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 


HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS.  63 


She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow — 
Her  press'd  lip  arch'd,  and  her  clear  eye  undimm'd, 
As  if  it  were  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through,  I 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  press'd 
His  hand  till  it  was  pain'd  ;  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  pass'd,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest !  but  Hagar  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  open'd  his  parch'd  lips 
For  water  ;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 
She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky,— 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him  ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 
Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 
Why  God  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 
She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 


64  HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS. 


It  was  too  much  for  her.    She  lifted  him, 
And  bore  him  further  on,  and  laid  his  head 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub , 
And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 
And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 
Till   he    should   die;    and,  watching   him,   she 
mourn'd : — 

"  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die  ;  J  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye  ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die  1 

"  I   did   not    dream   of  this   when    thou    wast 

straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers ; 

Or  wiling  the  soft  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

"  Oh  no !  and  when  I  watch'd  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  far  Nile, 


HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS.  65 


How  pray'd  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 
An  heritage  for  thee  ! 

"  And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won 

thee  ! 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press ; 

And  oh  !  my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillow'd  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair !" 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laugh'd 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisp'd 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


66  R1ZPAH    WITH    HER    SONS. 


toft!)  fjer  Sons, 

(7%e  day  before  they  were  hanged  on  Gibeah.) 
"  BREAD  for  my  mother  !"  said  the  voice  of  one 
Darkening  the  door  of  Rizpah.    She  look'd  up — 
And  lo !  the  princely  countenance  and  mien 
Of  dark-brow'd  Armoni.    The  eye  of  Saul— 
The  very  voice  and  presence  of  the  king — 
Limb,  port,  and  majesty, — were  present  there, 
Mock'd  like  an  apparition  in  her  son. 
Yet,  as  he  stoopM  his  forehead  to  her  hand 
With  a  kind  smile,  a  something  of  his  mother 
Unbent  the  haughty  arching  of  his  lip, 
And,  through  the  darkness  of  the  widow's  heart 
Trembled  a  nerve  of  tenderness  that  shook 
Her  thought  of  pride  all  suddenly  to  tears. 

"  Whence  comest  thou?"  said  Rizpah. 

"  From  the  house 

Of  David.    In  his  gate  there  stood  a  soldier — 
This  in  his  hand.    I  pluck'd  it,  and  I  said, 


RIZPAII    WITH    HER    SONS.  67 


*  A  king's  son  takes  it  for  his  hungry  mother  !' 
God  stay  the  famine  !" 


*    *    *    As  he  spoke,  a  step, 
Light  as  an  antelope's,  the  threshold  press'd, 
And  like  a  beam  of  light  into  the  room 
Enter'd  Mephibosheth.    What  bird  of  heaven 
Or  creature  of  the  wild— what  flower  of  earth- 
Was  like  this  fairest  of  the  sons  of  Saul ! 
The  violet's  cup  was  harsh  to  his  blue  eye. 
Less  agile  was  the  fierce  barb's  fiery  step. 
His  voice  drew  hearts  to  him.    His  smile  was  like 
The  incarnation  of  some  blessed  dream- 
Its  joyousness  so  sunn'd  the  gazer's  eye  ! 
Fair  were  his  locks.    His  snowy  teeth  divided 
A  bow  of  Love,  drawn  with  a  scarlet  thread. 
His  cheek  was  like  the  moist  heart  of  the  rose  ; 
And,  but  for  nostrils  of  that  breathing  fire 
That  turns  the  lion  back,  and  limbs  as  lithe 
As  is  the  velvet  muscle  of  the  pard, 
Mephibosheth  had  been  too  fair  for  man. 

As  if  he  were  a  vision  that  would  fade, 
Rizpah  gazed  on  him.    Never,  to  her  eye, 
G  rew  his  bright  form  familiar  ;  but,  like  stars, 
That  seem'd  each  night  new  lit  in  a  new  heaven, 
He  was  each  morn's  sweet  gift  to  her.    She  loved 


RIZPAH    WITH    HER    SONS. 


Her  firstborn,  as  a  mother  loves  her  child, 
Tenderly,  fondly.    But  for  him— the  last— 
What  had  she  done  for  heaven  to  be  his  mother! 
Her  heart  rose  in  her  throat  to  hear  his  voice  ; 
She  look'd  at  him  forever  through  her  tears  ; 
Her  utterance,  when  she  spoke  to  him,  sank  down, 
As  if  the  lightest  thought  of  him  had  lain 
In  an  unfathom'd  cavern  of  her  soul. 
The  morning  light  was  part  of  him,  to  her — 
What  broke  the  day  for,  but  to  show  his  beauty  ? 
The  hours  but  measured  time  till  he  should  come  ; 
Too  tardy  sang  the  bird  when  he  was  gone  ; 
She  would  have  shut  the  flowers — and  call'd  the 

star 

Back  to  the  mountain-top— and  bade  the  sun 
Pause  at  eve's  golden  door — to  wait  for  him ! 
Was  this  a  heart  gone  wild  ? — or  is  the  love 
Of  mothers  like  a  madness  ?    Such  as  this 
Is  many  a  poor  one  in  her  humble  home, 
Who  silently  and  sweetly  sits  alone, 
Pouring  her  life  all  out  upon  her  child. 
What  cares  she  thaAie  does  not  feel  how  close 
Her  heart  beats  after  his — that  all  unseen 
Are  the  fond  thoughts  that  follow  him  by  day, 
And  watch  his  sleep  like  angels  ?  And,  when  moved 
By  some  sore  needed  Providence,  he  stops 
In  his  wild  path  and  lifts  a  thought  to  heaven, 


RIZPAH    WITH    HER    SONS.  69 


What  cares  the  mother  that  he  does  not  see  ! 
The  link  between  the  blessing  and  her  prayer 

He  who  once  wept  with  Mary — angels  keeping 
Their  unthank'd  watch — are  a  foreshadowing 
Of  what  love  is  in  heaven.    We  may  believe 
That  we  shall  know  each  other's  forms  hereafter. 
And,  in  the  bright  fields  of  the  better  land, 
Call  the  lost  dead  to  us.    Oh  conscious  heart ! 
That  in  the  lone  paths  of  this  shadowy  world 
Hast  bless'd  all  light,  however  dimly  shining, 
That  broke  upon  the  darkness  of  thy  way — 
Number  thy  lamps  of  love,  and  tell  me,  now, 
How  many  canst  thou  re-light  at  the  stars 
And  blush  not  at  their  burning  ?    One — one  only — 
Lit  while  your  pulses  by  one  heart  kept  time, 
And  fed  with  faithful  fondness  to  your  grave— 
tTho'  sometimes  with  a  hand  stretch'd  back  from 

heaven,) 

Steadfast  thro'  all  things— near,  when  most  for 
got— 

And  with  its  fingers  of  unerring  truth 
Pointing  the  lost  way  in  thy  darkest  hour- 
One  lamp — thy  mother's  love — amid  the  stars 
Shall  lift  its  pure  flame  changeless,  and,  before 
The  throne  of  God,  burn  through  eternity — 
Holy— as  it  was  lit  and  lent  thee  here. 


70  RIZPAH    WITH    HER    SONS. 

The  hand  in  salutation  gently  raised 
To  the  bow'd  forehead  of  the  princely  >  oy, 
Linger'd  amid  his  locks.    "  I  sold,"  Le  said, 
"  My  Lybian  barb  for  but  a  cake  of  meal — 
Lo  !  this — my  mother  !    As  I  pass'd  the  street, 
I  hid  it  in  my  mantle,  for  there  stand 
Famishing  mothers,  with  their  starving  babes, 
At  every  threshold  ;  and  wild,  desperate  men 
Prowl,  with  the  eyes  of  tigers,  up  and  down, 
Watching  to  rob  those  who,  from  house  to  hous< 
Beg  for  the  dying.  Fear  not  thou,  my  mother  ! 
Thy  sons  will  be  Elijah's  ravens  to  thee  !" 

[UNFINISHED.] 


LAZARUS    AND    MARY.  71 


ant! 


JESUS  was  there  but  yesterday.    The  prints 
Of  his  departing  feet  were  at  the  door  ; 
His  "  Peace  be  with  you  !"  was  yet  audible 
In  the  rapt  porch  of  Mary's  charmed  ear  ; 
And,  in  the  low  rooms,  'twas  as  if  the  air, 
Hush'd  with  his  going  forth,  had  been  the  breath 
Of  angels  left  on  watch  —  so  conscious  still 
The  place  seem'd  of  his  presence  !    Yet,  within, 
The  family  by  Jesus  loved  were  weeping, 
For  Lazarus  lay  dead. 

And  Mary  sat 

By  the  pale  sleeper.    He  was  young  to  die. 
The  countenance  whereon  the  Saviour  dwelt 
With  his  benignant  srnile  —  the  soft  fair  lines 
Breathing  of  hope  —  were  still  all  eloquent, 
Like  life  well  mock'd  in  marble.    That  the  voice, 
Gone  from  those  pallid  lips,  was  heard  in  heaven, 
Toned  with  unearthly  sweetness  —  that  the  light, 
Quench'd.  in  the  closing  of  those  stirless  lids, 


72  LAZARUS    AND    MARY. 


Was  veiling  before  God  its  timid  fire, 
New-lit,  and  brightening  like  a  star  at  eve— 
That  Lazarus,  her  brother,  was  in  bliss, 
Not  with  this  cold  clay  sleeping— Mary  knew. 
Her  heaviness  of  heart  was  not  for  him  ! 
But  close  had  been  the  tie  by  Death  divided. 
The  intertwining  locks  of  that  bright  hair 
That  wiped  the  feet  of  Jesus— the  fair  hands 
Clasp'd  in  her  breathless  wonder  while  He  taught— 
Scarce  to  one  pulse  thrill'd  more  in  unison, 
Than  with  one  soul  this  sister  and  her  brother 
Had  lock'd  their  lives  together.  ( In  this  love, 
Hallow'd  from  stain,  the  woman's  heart  of  Mary 
Was,  with  its  rich  affections,  all  bound  up. 
Of  an  unblemish'd  beauty,  as  became 
An  office  by  archangels  filPd  till  now, 
She  walk'd  with  a  celestial  halo  clad  ; 
And  while,  to  the  Apostles'  eyes,  it  seem'd 
She  but  fulfill'd  her  errand  out  of  heaven — 
Sharing  her  low  roof  with  the  Son  of  God- 
She  was  a  woman,  fond  and  mortal  still  ; 
And  the  deep  fervor,  lost  to  passion's  fire, 
Breathed  through  the  sister's  tenderness.    In  vain 
Knew  Mary,  gazing  on  that  face  of  clay, 
That  it  was  not  her  brother.    He  was  there — 
Swathed  in  that  linen  vesture  for  the  grave — 
The  same  loved  one  in  all  his  comeliness— 


LAZARUS    AND    MARY.  73 

And  with  him  to  the  grave  her  heart  must  go. 
What  though  he  talk'd  of  her  to  angels  ?  nay— 
Hover'd  in  spirit  near  her  ?— 'twas  that  arm, 
Palsied  in  death,  whose  fond  caress  she  knew ! 
It  was  that  lip  of  marble  with  whose  kiss, 
Morning  and  eve,  love  hemm'd  the  sweet  day  in* 
This  was  the  form  by  the  Judean  maids 
Praised  for  its  palm-like  stature,  as  he  walk'd 
With  her  by  Kedron  in  the  eventide — 
The  dead  was  Lazarus  !     ***** 
The  burial  was  over,  and  the  night 
Fell  upon  Bethany — and  morn — and  noon. 
And  comforters  and  mourners  went  their  way — 
But  death  stay'd  on  !    They  had  been  oft  alone, 
When  Lazarus  had  follow'd  Christ  to  hear 
His  teachings  in  Jerusalem  ;  but  this 
Was  more  than  solitude.    The  silence  now 
Was  void  of  expectation.    Something  felt 
Always  before,  and  loved  without  a  name,— 
Joy  from  the  air,  hope  from  the  opening  door, 
Welcome  and  life  from  off  the  very  walls, — 
Seem'd  gone— and  in  the  chamber  where  he  lay 
There  was  a  fearful  and  unbreathing  hush, 
Stiller  than  night's  last  hour,  f  So  fell  on  Mary 
The  shadows  all  have  known,  who,  from  their 

hearts, 
Have  released  friends  to  heaven;  The  parting  soul 


74  LAZARUS    AND    MARY. 

Spreads  wing  betwixt  the  mourner  and  the  sky  ! 
As  if  its  path  lay,  from  the  tie  last  broken, 
Straight  through  the  cheering  gateway  of  the  sun  ; 
And,  to  the  eye  strain'd  after,  'tis  a  cloud 
That  bars  the  light  from  all  things. 

Now  as  Christ 

Drew  near  to  Bethany,  the  Jews  went  forth 
With  Martha,  mourning  Lazarus.    But  Mary 
Sat  in  the  house.    She  knew  the  hour  was  nigh 
When  He  would  go  again,  as  He  had  said, 
Unto  his  Father  ;  and  she  felt  that  He, 
Who  loved  her  brother  Lazarus  in  life, 
Had  chose  the  hour  to  bring  him  home  thro'  Death 
In  no  unkind  forgetfulness.    Alone — 
She  could  lift  up  the  bitter  prayer  to  heaven, 
"  Thy  will  be  done,  O  God  !"— but  that  dear  brother 
Had  fill'd  the  cup  and  broke  the  bread  for  Christ ; 
And  ever,  at  the  morn,  when  she  had  knelt 
And  wash'd  those  holy  feet,  came  Lazarus 
To  bind  his  sandals  on,  and  follow  forth 
With  dropp'd  eyes,  like  an  angel,  sad  and  fair- 
Intent  upon  the  Master's  need  alone. 
Indissolubly  link'd  were  they  !    And  now, 
To  go  to  meet  him — Lazarus  not  there— 
And  to  his  greeting  answer  "It  is  well !" 
And,  without  tears,  (since  grief  would  trouble  Him 


LAZARUS    A\D    MARY.  75 


Whose  soul  was  always  sorrowful,)  to  kneel 
And  minister  alone— her  heart  gave  way  ! 
She  cover'd  up  her  face  and  turn'd  again 
To  wait  within  for  Jesus.    But  once  more 
Came  Martha,  saying,  "  Lo  !  the  Lord  is  here 
And  calleth  for  thee,  Mary  !"    Then  arose 
The  mourner  from  the  ground,  whereon  she  sate 
Shrouded  in  sackcloth,  and  bound  quickly  up 
The  golden  locks  of  her  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  o'er  her  ashy  garments  drew  a  veil 
Hiding  the  eyes  she  could  not  trust.    And  still, 
As  she  made  ready  to  go  forth,  a  calm 
As  in  a  dream  fell  on  her. 

At  a  fount 

Hard  by  the  sepulchre,  without  the  wall, 
Jesus  awaited  Mary.    Seated  near 
Were  the  way-worn  disciples  in  the  shade  ; 
But,  of  himself  forgetful,  Jesus  lean'd 
Upon  his  staff,  and  watch'd  where  she  should  come 
To  whose  one  sorrow — but  a  sparrow's  falling — 
The  pity  that  redeem'd  a  world  could  bleed  ! 
And  as  she  came,  with  that  uncertain  step, — 
Eager,  yet  weak, — her  hands  upon  her  breast, — 
And  they  who  follow'd  her  all  fallen  back 
To  leave  her  with  her  sacred  grief  alone, — 
The  heart  of  Christ  was  troubled.    She  drew  near, 


76  LAZARUS    AND    MARY. 


And  the  disciples  rose  up  from  the  fount, 
Moved  by  her  look  of  wo,  and  gather'd  round  ; 
And  Mary — for  a  moment — ere  she  look'd 
Upon  the  Saviour,  stay'd  her  faltering  feet,— 
And  straighteri'd  her  veil'd  form,  and  tighter  drew 
Her  clasp  upon  the  folds  across  her  breast ; 
Then,  with  a  vain  strife  to  control  her  tears, 
She  stagger'd  to  their  midst,  and  at  His  feet 
Fell  prostrate,  saying,  "  Lord !   hadst  thou  been 

here, 

My  brother  had  not  died !"    The  Saviour  groan'd 
In  spirit,  and  stoop'd  tenderly,  and  raised 
The  mourner  from  the  ground,  and  in  a  voice, 
Broke  in  its  utterance  like  her  own,  He  said, 
"  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?"    Then  the  Jews  who 

came, 

Following  Mary,  answer'd  through  their  tears, 
"  Lord  !  come  and  see  !"  But  lo  !  the  mighty  heart 
That  in  Gethsemane  sweat  drops  of  blood, 
Taking  for  us  the  cup  that  might  not  pass — 
The  heart  whose  breaking  cord  upon  the  cross 
Made  the  earth  tremble,  and  the  sun  afraid 
To  look  upon  his  agony — the  heart 
Of  a  lost  world's  Redeemer — overflowed, 
Touch'd  by  a  mourner's  sorrow  !    Jesus  wept. 

Calm'd  by  those  pitying  tears,  and  fondly  brooding 


LAZARUS    AND    MARY. 


Upon  the  thought  that  Christ  so  loved  her  brother, 
Stood  Mary  there  ;  but  that  lost  burden  now 
Lay  on  His  heart  who  pitied  her  ;  and  Christ, 
Following  slow,  and  groaning  in  Himself, 
Came  to  the  sepulchre.    It  was  a  cave, 
And  a  stone  lay  upon  it.    Jesus  said, 
"  Take  ye  away  the  stone  !"    Then  lifted  He 
His  moisten'd  eyes  to  heaven,  and  while  the  Jews 
And  the  disciples  bent  their  heads  in  awe, 
And  trembling  Mary  sank  upon  her  knees, 
The  Son  of  God  pray'd  audibly.    He  ceased, 
And  for  a  minute's  space  there  was  a  hush, 
As  if  th'  angelic  watchers  of  the  world 
Had  stay'd  the  pulses  of  all  breathing  things, 
To  listen  to  that  prayer.    The  face  of  Christ 
Shone  as  He  stood,  and  over  Him  there  came 
Command,  as  'twere  the  living  face  of  God, 
And  with  a  loud  Troice,  He  cried,  "  Lazarus ! 
Come  forth  !"  And  instantly,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
And  borne  by  unseen  angels  from  the  cave, 
He  that  was  dead  stood  with  them.    At  the  word 
Of  Jesus,  the  fear-stricken  Jews  unloosed 
The  bands  from  off  the  foldings  of  his  shroud ; 
And  Mary,  with  her  dark  veil  thrown  aside, 
Ran  to  him  swiftly,  and  cried,  "  LAZARUS  ! 
My  BROTHER,  LAZARUS  !"  and  tore  away 
The  napkin  she  had  bound  about  his  head— 


78  LAZARUS    AND    MARY. 


And  touch'd  the  warm  lips  with  her  fearful  hand- 
And  on  his  neck  fell  weeping.    And  while  all 
Lay  on  their  faces  prostrate,  Lazarus 
Took  Mary  by  the  hand,  and  they  knelt  down 
And  worshipp'd  Him  who  loved  them. 


THOUGHTS,    ETC.  79 


tojnle  mafcfnij  t&e  ££rabe  of  a 
<£hfitj. 


ROOM,  gentle  flowers  !  my  child  would  pass  to 

heaven  ! 
:  Ye  look'd  not  for  her  yet  with  your  soft  eyes, 

0  watchful  ushers  at  Death's  narrow  door  ! 
Hut  lo  !  while  you  delay  to  let  her  forth, 
Angels,  beyond,  stay  for  her  !    One  long  kiss 
i-'rorn  lips  all  pale  with  agony,  and  tears, 
Wrung  after  anguish  had  dried  up  with  fire 
The  eyes  that  wept  them,  were  the  cup  of  life 

i  Held  as  a  welcome  to  her.    Weep  !  oh  mother  ! 
;  But  not  that  from  this  cup  of  bitterness 
!  A  cherub  of  the  sky  has  turn'd  away. 

i  One  look  upon  thy  face  ere  thou  depart  ! 
|  My  daughter  !  It  is  soon  to  let  thee  go  ! 
j  My  daughter  !  With  thy  birth  has  gush'd  a  spring  j 

1  knew  not  of—  filling  my  heart  with  tears, 
And  turning  with  strange  tenderness  to  thee— 
A  love  —  oh  God  !  it  seems  so  —  that  must  flow 


80  THOUGHTS,    ETC. 


Far  as  thou  fleest,  and  'twixt  heaven  and  me, 
Henceforward,  be  a  bright  and  yearning  chain 
Drawing  me  after  thee  !    And  so,  farewell ! 
'Tis  a  harsh  world,  in  which  affection  knows 
No  place  to  treasure  up  its  loved  and  lost 
But  the  foul  grave  !    Thou,  who  so  late  wast 

sleeping 

Warm  in  the  close  fold  of  a  mother's  heart, 
Scarce  from  her  breast  a  single  pulse  receiving 
But  it  was  sent  thee  with  some  tender  thought, 
How  can  I  leave  thee — here !    Alas  for  man ! 
The  herb  in  its  humility  may  fall 
And  waste  into  the  bright  and  genial  air, 
While  we— by  hands  that  minister'd  in  life 
Nothing  but  love  to  us— are  thrust  away— 
The  earth  flung  in  upon  our  just  cold  bosoms, 
And  the  warm  sunshine  trodden  out  forever ! 

Yet  have  I  chosen  for  thy  grave,  my  child, 
A  bank  where  I  have  lain  in  summer  hours, 
And  thought  how  little  it  would  seem  like  death 
To  sleep  amid  such  loveliness.    The  brook, 
Tripping  with  laughter  down  the  rocky  steps 
That  lead  up  to  thy  bed,  would  still  trip  on, 
Breaking  the  dread  hush  of  the  mourners  gone  ; 
The  birds  are  never  silent  that  build  here, 
Trying  to  sing  down  the  more  vocal  waters : 


THOUGHTS,    ETC.  81 


The  slope  is  beautiful  with  moss  and  flowers, 
j  And  far  below,  seen  under  arching  leaves, 
i   Glitters  the  warm  sun  on  the  village  spire, 
j  Pointing  the  living  after  thee.    And  this 
;   Seems  like  a  comfort ;  and,  replacing  now 
i  The  flowers  that  have  made  room  for  thee,  I  go 
I   To  whisper  the  same  peace  to  ner  who  lies — 
Robb'd  of  her  child  and  lonely.    'Tis  the  work 
;   Of  many  a  dark  hour,  and  of  many  a  prayer, 
To  bring  the  heart  back  from  an  infant  gone. 
:  Hope  must  give  o'er,  and  busy  fancy  blot 
!  The  images  from  all  the  silent  rooms, 
And  every  sight  and  sound  familiar  to  her 
Undo  its  sweetest  link— and  so  at  last 
The  fountain — that,  once  struck,  must  flow  for 
ever — 

<   Will  hide  and  waste  in  silence.    When  the  smile 
i   Steals  to  her  pallid  lip  again,  and  spring 
i   Wakens  the  buds  above  thee,  we  will  come, 
j  And,  standing  by  thy  music-haunted  grave, 
Look  on  each  other  cheerfully,  and  say  :— 
A  child  that  we  have  loved  is  gone  to  heaven, 
And  by  this  gate  of  flowers  she  passed  away ! 


82  ON    THE    DEPARTURE 


<Dn  t&e  departure  of  met.  M 

FROM  HIS  PARISH,  WHEN  CHOSEN  PRESIDENT  OF  WA- 
BASH  COLLEGE. 

LEAVE  us  not,  man  of  prayer !    Like  Paul,  hast 

thou 

"  Served  God  with  all  humility  of  mind." 
Dwelling  among  us,  and  "  with  many  tears," 
"From  house  to  house,"  "by  night  and  day  not 

ceasing," 

Hast  pleaded  thy  blest  errand.    Leave  us  not ! 
Leave  us  not  now  !    The  Sabbath-bell,  so  long 
Link'd  with  thy  voice— the  prelude  to  thy  prayer— 
The  call  to  us  from  heaven  to  come  with  thee 
Into  the  house  of  God,  and,  from  thy  lips, 
Hear  what  had  fall'n  upon  thy  heart — will  sound 
Lonely  and  mournfully  when  thou  art  gone  ! 
Our  prayers  are  in  thy  words — our  hope  in  Christ 
Warm'd  on  thy  lips— our  darkling  thoughts  of  God 
Follow'd  thy  loved  call  upward — and  so  knit 
Is  all  our  worship  with  those  outspread  hands, 
And  the  imploring  voice,  which,  well  we  knew, 


OF    REV.    MR.  WHITE.  83 


Sank  in  the  ear  of  Jesus— that,  with  thee, 
The  angel's  ladder  seems  removed  from  sight, 
And  we  astray  in  darkness  !    Leave  us  not ! 
Leave  not  the  dead!     They  have  lain  calmly 

down — 

Thy  comfort  in  their  ears— believing  well 
That  when  thine  own  more  holy  work  was  done, 
Thou  wouldst  lie  down  beside  them,  and  be  near 
When  the  last  trump  shall  summon,  to  fold  up 
Thy  flock  affrighted,  and,  with  that  same  voice 
Whose  whisper'd  promises  could  sweeten  death, 
Take  up  once  more  the  interrupted  strain, 
And  wait  Christ's  coming,  saying,  "  Here  am  I, 
And  those  whom  thou  hast  given  me  !"  Leave  not 
The  old,  who,  'mid  the  gathering  shadows,  cling 
To  their  accustom'd  staff,  and  know  not  how 
To  lose  thee,  and  so  near  the  darkest  hour ! 
Leave  not  the  penitent,  whose  soul  may  be 
Deaf  to  the  strange  voice,  but  awake  to  thine  ! 
Leave  not  the  mourner  thou  hast  sooth'd— the 

heart 

Turns  to  its  comforter  again  !    Leave  not 
The  child  thou  hast  baptized  !  another's  care 
May  not  keep  bright,  upon  the  mother's  heart, 
The  covenant  seal ;  .the  infant's  ear  has  caught 
Words  it  has  strangely  ponder'd  from  thy  lips, 
And  the  remember'd  tone  may  find  again, 


84  ON    THE    DEPARTURE,  ETC. 


And  quicken  for  the  harvest,  the  first  seed 
Sown  for  eternity !    Leave  not  the  child ! 

Yet  if  thou  wilt — if,  "  bound  in  spirit,"  thou 
Must  go,  and  we  shall  see  thy  face  no  more, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !"    We  do  not  say 
Remember  us— thou  wilt—  in  love  and  prayer  ! 
And  thou  wilt  be  remember'd — by  the  dead, 
When  the  last  trump  awakes  them — by  the  old, 
When,  of  the  "silver  cord"  whose  strength  thou 

knowest, 

The  last  thread  fails— by  the  bereaved  and  stricken,     ; 
When  the  dark  cloud,  wherein  thou  found'st  a  spot  ; 
Broke  by  the  light  of  mercy,  lowers  again— 
By  the  sad  mother,  pleading  for  her  child, 
In  murmurs  difficult,  since  thou  art  gone— 
By  all  thou  leavest,  when  the  Sabbath-bell 
Brings  us  together,  and  the  closing  hymn 
Hushes  our  hearts  to  pray,  and  thy  loved  voice, 
That  all  our  wants  had  grown  to,  (only  thus, 
'Twould  seem,  articulate  to  God,)  falls  not 
Upon  our  listening  ears— remernber'd  thus — 
Remember'd  well— in  all  our  holiest  hours- 
Will  be  the  faithful  shepherd  we  have  lost ! 
And  ever  with  one  prayer,  for  which  our  love 
Will  find  the  pleading  words,— that  in  the  light 
;  Of  heaven  we  may  behold  his  face  once  more  ! 


BIRTH-DAY    VERSES.  85 


Verses, 


"The  heart  that  we  have  lain  near  before  our  birth,  is  the 
only  one  that  cannot  forget  that  it  has  loved  us." 

Philip  Slingsby. 

MY  birth-day  !—  Oh  beloved  mother  ! 

My  heart  is  with  thee  o'er  the  seas. 
I  did  not  think  to  count  another 

Before  I  wept  upon  thy  knees  — 
Before  this  scroll  of  absent  years 
Was  blotted  with  thy  streaming  tears. 

My  own  I  do  not  care  to  check. 

1  weep—  albeit  here  alone— 
As  if  I  hung  upon  thy  neck, 

As  if  thy  lips  were  on  my  own, 
As  if  this  full,  sad  heart  of  mine, 
Were  beating  closely  upon  thine. 

Four  weary  years  !    How  looks  she  now  ? 
What  light  is  in  those  tender  eyes  ? 


86  BIRTH -DAY    VERSES. 


What  trace  of  time  has  touch'd  the  brow 
Whose  look  is  borrow'd  of  the  skies 

That  listen  to  her  nightly  prayer  ? 

How  is  she  changed  since  he  was  there 

Who  sleeps  upon  her  heart  alway— 
Whose  name  upon  her  lips  is  worn— 

For  whom  the  night  seems  made  to  pray— 
For  whom  she  wakes  to  pray  at  morn— 

Whose  sight  is  dim,  whose  heart-strings  stir, 

Who  wreeps  these  tears — to  think  of  her  I 

I  know  not  if  my  mother's  eyes 

Would  find  me  changed  in  slighter  things ; 
I've  wander'd  beneath  many  skies, 

And  tasted  of  some  bitter  springs  ; 
And  many  leaves,  once  fair  and  gay, 
From  youth's  full  flower  have  dropp'd  away— 
But,  as  these  looser  leaves  depart, 

The  lessen'd  flower  gets  near  the  core, 
And,  when  deserted  quite,  the  heart 

Takes  closer  what  was  dear  of  yore— 
And  yearns  to  those  who  loved  it  first — 
The  sunshine  and  the  dew  by  which  its  bud  was 

nursed. 

Dear  mother !  dost  thou  love  me  yet  ? 
Am  I  remember'd  in  my  home  ? 


BIRTH-DAY    VERSES.  87 

When  those  I  love  for  joy  are  met, 
Does  some  one  wish  that  I  would  come  ? 

Thou  dost — I  am  beloved  of  these  ! 
But,  as  the  schoolboy  numbers  o'er 

Night  after  night  the  Pleiades 
And  finds  the  stars  he  found  before — 

As  turns  the  maiden  oft  her  token- 
As  counts  the  miser  aye  his  gold — 

So,  till  life's  silver  cord  is  broken, 
Would  I  of  thy  fond  love  be  told. 

My  heart  is  full,  mine  eyes  are  wet — 
Dear  mother !  dost  thou  love  thy  long-lost  wan 
derer  yet  ? 

Oh  !  when  the  hour  to  meet  again 

Creeps  on — and,  speeding  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart  takes  up  its  lengthen'd  chain, 

And,  link  by  link,  draws  nearer  thee— 
When  land  is  hail'd,  and,  from  the  shore, 

Comes  off  the  blessed  breath  of  home, 
With  fragrance  from  my  mother's  door 

Of  flowers  forgotten  when  I  come — 
When  port  is  gain'd,  and  slowly  now, 

The  old  familiar  paths  are  pass'd, 
And,  entering — unconscious  how — 

I  gaze  upon  thy  face  at  last, 
And  run  to  thee,  all  faint  and  weak, 


BIRTH-DAY    VERSES. 


And  feel  thy  tears  upon  my  cheek — 
Oh !  if  my  heart  break  not  with  joy, 

The  light  of  heaven  will  fairer  seem ; 
And  I  shall  grow  once  more  a  boy : 

And,  mother  !— 'twill  be  like  a  dream 
That  we  were  parted  thus  for  years, — 
And  once  that  we  have  dried  our  tears, 
How  will  the  days  seern  long  and  bright— 

To  meet  thee  always  with  the  morn, 
And  hear  thy  blessing  every  night — 

Thy  "  dearest,"  thy  "  first-born  T"— 
And  be  no  more,  as  now,  in  a  strange  land,  for 
lorn! 


TO    MY    MOTHER,  ETC.  89 


ntg  J&ottjer  from  tfje 


Mother!  dear  mother!  the  feelings  nurst 

As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  dung  round  thee  first. 

'Twas  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain— 

'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long1  remain: 

And  as  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 

Some  friend  still  trusted  drops  away, 

Mother!  dear  mother!  oh  dost  thou  see 

How  the  shortened  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee  1 

Early  Poems. 

'Tis  midnight  the  lone  mountains  on— 
The  East  is  fleck'd  with  cloudy  bars, 

And,  gliding  through  them  one  by  one, 
The  moon  walks  up  her  path  of  stars  — 

The  light  upon  her  placid  brow 

Received  from  fountains  unseen  now. 

And  happiness  is  mine  to-night, 
Thus  springing  from  an  unseen  fount  ; 

And  breast  and  brain  are  warm  with  light, 
With  midnight  round  me  on  the  mount  — 


90  TO    MY    MOTHER,  ETC. 

Its  rays,  like  thine,  fair  Dian,  flow 
From  that  far  Western  star  below. 

Dear  mother  !  in  thy  love  I  live  ; 

The  life  thou  gav'st  flows  yet  from  thee- 
And,  sun-like,  thou  hast  power  to  give 

Life  to  the  earth,  air,  sea,  for  me  ! 
Though  wandering,  as  this  moon  above, 
I'm  dark  without  thy  constant  love. 


LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE.  91 


3Lints  on  leabfnjj  3Europe. 

BRIGHT  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast ! 

Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue  ; 
Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 

And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew  ! 
Strain  home  !  oh  lithe  and  quivering  spars  ! 
Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars  ! 

The  wind  blows  fair !  the  vessel  feels 

The  pressure  of  the  rising  breeze, 
And,  swiftest  of  a  thousand  keels, 

She  leaps  to  the  careering  seas  ! 
Oh,  fair,  fair  cloud  of  snowy  sail, 

In  whose  white  breast  I  seem  to  lie, 
How  oft,  when  blew  this  eastern  gale, 

I've  seen  your  semblance  in  the  sky, 
And  long'd  with  breaking  heart  to  flee 
On  cloud-like  pinions  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Adieu,  oh  lands  of  fame  and  eld  ! 
I  turn  to  watch  our  foamy  track, 


I   92  LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE. 


And  thoughts  with  which  I  first  beheld 

Yon  clouded  line,  come  hurrying  back ; 
My  lips  are  dry  with  vague  desire, — 

My  cheek  once  more  is  hot  with  joy— 
My  pulse,  my  brain,  my  soul  on  fire  ! — 

Oh,  what  has  changed  that  traveller-boy ! 
As  leaves  the  ship  this  dying  foam, 
His  visions  fade  behind — his  weary  heart  speeds  , 

home ! 

Adieu,  oh  soft  and  southern  shore, 

Where  dwelt  the  stars  long  miss'd  in  heaven— 
Those  forms  of  beauty  seen  no  more, 

Yet  once  to  Art's  rapt  vision  given  ! 
Oh,  still  th'  enamor'd  sun  delays, 

And  pries  through  fount  and  crumbling  fane, 
To  win  to  his  adoring  gaze 

Those  children  of  the  sky  again  ! 
Irradiate  beauty,  such  as  never 

That  light  on  other  earth  hath  shone, 
Hath  made  this  land  her  home  forever ; 

And  could  I  live  for  this  alone— 
Were  not  my  birthright  brighter  far 

Than  such  voluptuous  slaves,  can  be — 
Held  not  the  West  one  glorious  star 

New-born  and  blazing  for  the  free— 
Soar'd  not  to  heaven  our  eagle  yet — 


LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE.  93 


Rome,  with  her  Helot  sons,  should  teach  me  to 
forget ! 

Adieu,  oh  fatherland  !    I  see 

Your  white  cliifs  on  th'  horizon's  rim, 
And  though  to  freer  skies  I  flee 

My  heart  swells,  and  my  eyes  are  dim  ! 
As  knows  the  dove  the  task  you  give  her, 

When  loosed  upon  a  foreign  shore — 
As  spreads  the  rain-drop  in  the  river 

In  which  it  may  have  flow'd  before — 
To  England,  over  vale  and  mountain, 

My  fancy  flew  from  climes  more  fair— 
My  blood,  that  knew  its  parent  fountain, 

Ran  warm  and  fast  in  England's  air. 

Dear  mother !  in  thy  prayer,  to-night, 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears ! 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the  light — 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years ! 
Sleep  safe,  oh  wave-worn  mariner ! 

Fear  not,  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea ! 
The  ear  of  heaven  bends  low  to  her ! 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me  ! 
The  spider  knows  the  roof  unriven, 

While   swings  his  web,  though  lightnings 
blaze— 


94  LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE. 

And  by  a  thread  still  fast,  on  heaven, 
I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays ! 

Dear  mother  !  when  our  lips  can  speak — 

When  first  our  tears  will  let  us  see — 
When  I  can  gaze  upon  thy  cheek, 

And  thou,  with  thy  dear  eyes,  on  me — 
'Twill  be  a  pastime  little  sad 

To  trace  what  weight  Time's  heavy  fingers 
Upon  each  other's  forms  have  had — 

For  all  may  flee,  so  feeling  lingers  ! 
But  there's  a  change,  beloved  mother ! 

To  stir  far  deeper  thoughts  of  thine  ; 
I  come — but  with  me  comes  another 

To  share  the  heart  once  only  mine  ! 
Thou,  on  whose  thoughts,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven — 
Thou,  who  hast  watch'd  one  treasure  only— 

Water'd  one  flower  with  tears  at  even — 
Room  in  thy  heart !    The  hearth  she  left 

Is  darken'd  to  lend  light  to  ours  ! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts— that  languish  more  than  flowers  ! 
She  was  their  light — their  very  air — 
Room,  mother  !  in  thy  heart !  place  for  her  in  thy 

prayer ! 


A    TRUE    INCIDENT.  95 


£C  true  KncfBent 

UPON  a  summer's  morn,  a  southern  mother 

Sat  at  the  curtain'd  window  of  an  inn. 

She  rested  from  long  travel,  and  with  hand 

Upon  her  cheek  in  tranquil  happiness, 

Look'd  where  the  busy  travellers  went  and  came. 

And,  like  the  shadows  of  the  swallows  flying 

Over  the  bosom  of  unruffled  water, 

Pass'd  from  her  thoughts  all  objects,  leaving  there, 

As  in  the  water's  breast,  a  mirror'd  heaven — 

For,  in  the  porch  beneath  her,  to  and  fro, 

A  nurse  walk'd  singing  with  her  babe  in  arms. 

And  many  a  passer-by  look'd  on  the  child 

And  praised  its  wondrous  beauty,  but  still  on 

The  old  nurse  troll'd  her  lullaby,  and  still, 

Blest  through  her  depths  of  soul  by  light  there  i 

shining, 

The  mother  in  her  revery  mused  on. 
But  lo  !  another  traveller  alighted  ! 
And  now,  no  more  indifferent  or  calm, 


f 

96  A    TRUE    INCIDENT. 

The  mother's  breath  comes  quick,  and  with  the 

blood 

Warm  in  her  cheek  and  brow,  she  murmurs  low, 
"  Now,  God  be  praised  !  I  am  no  more  alone 
In  knowing  I've  an  angel  for  my  child,— 
Chance  he  to  look  on't  only !"    With  a  smile — 
The  tribute  of  a  beauty-loving  heart 
To  things  from  God  new-moulded — would  have 

pass'd 

The  poet,  as  the  infant  caught  his  eye  ; 
But  suddenly  he  turn'd,  and  with  his  hand 
Upon  the  nurse's  arm,  he  stay'd  her  steps, 
And  gazed  upon  her  burthen,    'Twas  a  child 
In  whose  large  eyes  of  blue  there  shone,  indeed, 
Something  to  waken  wonder.    Never  sky 
In  noontide  depth,  or  softly-breaking  dawn — 
Never  the  dew  in  new-born  violet's  cup, 
Lay  so  entranced  in  purity  !    Not  calm, 
With  the  mere  hush  of  infancy  at  rest, 
The  ample  forehead,  but  serene  with  though!  ; 
And  by  the  rapt  expression  of  the  lips, 
They  seem'd  scarce  still  from  a  cherubic  hymn  ; 
And  over  all  its  countenance  there  breathed 
Benignity,  majestic  as  we  dream 
Angels  wear  ever,  before  God,    With  gaze 
Earnest  and  mournful,  and  his  eyelids  warm 
With  tears  kept  back,  the  poet  kiss'd  the  child  ; 


A    TRUE    INCIDENT.  97 


And  chasten'd  at  his  heart,  as  having  pass'd 
Close  to  an  angel,  went  upon  his  way. 

Soon  after,  to  the  broken  choir  in  heaven 
I  This  cherub  was  recall'd,  and  now  the  mother 
j  Bethought  her,  in  her  anguish,  of  the  bard — 
i   (Herself  a  far-off  stranger,  but  his  heart 
j  Familiar  to  the  world,)— and  wrote  to  tell  him, 
The  angel  he  had  recognised  that  morn, 
Had  fled  to  bliss  again.    The  poet  well 
Remember'd  that  child's  ministry  to  him  ; 
And  of  the  only  fountain  that  he  knew 
For  healing,  he  sought  comfort  for  the  mother. 
And  thus  lie  wrote  : — 
Mourn  not  for  the  child  from  thy  tenderness  riven, 

Ere  stain  on  its  purity  fell .' 

To  thy  questioning  heart,  lo  I  an  answer  from  heaven: 
"  Is  IT  WELL  WITH  THE  CHILD  ?"     "  IT  IS  WELL  !" 


98  THE    MOTHER 


J&ot&er  to  fjer 


THEY  tell  me  thou  art  come  from  a  far  world, 
Babe  of  my  bosom  !  that  these  little  arms, 
Whose  restlessness  is  like  the  spread  of  wings, 
Move  with  the  memory  of  flighst  scarce  o'er  — 
That  through  these  fringed  lids  we  see  the  soul 
Steep'd  in  the  blue  of  its  remember'd  home  ; 
And  while  thou  sleep'st  come  messengers,  they  ; 

say, 

Whispering  to  thee  —  and  'tis  then  I  see 
Upon  thy  baby  lips  that  smile  of  heaven  ! 

And  what  is  thy  far  errand,  my  fair  child  ? 
Why  away,  wandering  from  a  home  of  bliss, 
To  find  thy  way  through  darkness  home  again  ? 
Wert  thou  an  untried  dweller  in  the  sky  ? 
Is  there,  betwixt  the  cherub  that  thou  wert, 
The  cherub  and  the  angel  thou  mayst  be, 
'  A  life's  probation  in  this  sadder  world  ? 
;  Art  thou  with  memory  of  two  things  only, 
|  Music  and  light,  left  upon  earth  astray, 
And,  by  the  watchers  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 


TO    HER    CHILD.  99 


Look'd  for  with  fear  and  trembling? 

God  !  who  gavest 

Into  my  guiding  hand  this  wanderer, 
To  lead  her  through  a  world  whose  darkling  paths 
I  tread  with  steps  so  faltering— leave  not  me 
To  bring  her  to  the  gates  of  heaven  alone  ! 
I  feel  my  feebleness.    Let  these  stay  on — 
The  angels  who  now  visit  her  in  dreams  ! 
Bid  them  be  near  her  pillow  till  in  death 
The  closed  eyes  look  upon  Thy  face  once  more  ! 
And  let  the  light  and  music,  which  the  world 
Borrows  of  heaven,  and  which  her  infant  sense 
Hails  with  sweet  recognition,  be  to  her 
A  voice  to  call  her  upward,  and  a  lamp 
To  lead  her  steps  unto  Thee  ! 


100 


ober  a  (Eratile. 


1  SADDEN  when  thou  smilest  to  my  smile, 
Child  of  my  love  !    I  tremble  to  believe 
That  o'er  the  mirror  of  that  eye  of  blue 
The  shadow  of  my  heart  will  always  pass  ;  — 
A  heart  that,  from  its  struggle  with  the  world, 
Comes  nightly  to  thy  guarded  cradle  home, 
And,  careless  of  the  staining  dust  it  brings, 
Asks  for  its  idol  !    Strange  that  flowers  of  earth 
Are  visited  by  every  air  that  stirs, 
And  drink  in  sweetness  only,  while  the  child 
That  shuts  within  its  breast  a  bloom  for  heaven, 
May  take  a  blemish  from  the  breath  of  love, 
And  bear  the  blight  forever. 

I  have  wept 

With  gladness  at  the  gift  of  this  fair  child  ! 
My  life  is  bound  up  in  her.    But,  oh  God  ! 
Thou  know'st  how  heavily  my  heart  at  times 
Bears  its  sweet  burthen  ;  and  if  thou  hast  given 
To  nurture  such  as  mine  this  spotless  flower, 
To  bring  it  unpolluted  unto  thee, 


OVFJR   ^L  ^CRJMILE.  101 


Take  thou  its  loj#,  I  pray  thee  !  Give  it  light- 
Though,  following  th£  sun,  i£  turn'frcrr"  me  ( —  ; 
But,  by  the  chord  thus -wi  any,  and 'by  fie  li^tii ;    ' 
Shining  about  her,  draw  me  to  my  child  ! 
And  link  us  close,  oh  God,  when  near  to  heaven  ! 


102 


"The  years  of  a  man's  life  are  threescore  and  ten.' 

OH,  weary  heart !  thou'rt  half-way  home  ! 

We  stand  on  life's  meridian  height— 
As  far  from  childhood's  morning  come, 

As  to  the  grave's  forgetful  night. 
Give  Youth  and  Hope  a  parting  tear — 

Look  onward  with  a  placid  brow — 
Hope  promised  but  to  bring  us  here, 

And  Reason  takes  the  guidance  now- 
One  backward  look— the  last— the  last ! 
One  silent  tear — for  Youth  is  past ! 

Who  goes  with  Hope  and  Passion  back  1 
Who  comes  with  me  and  Memory  on  ? 

Oh,  lonely'looks  the  downward  track- 
Joy's  music  hush'd— Hope's  roses  gone ! 

To  Pleasure  and  her  giddy  troop 
Farewell,  without  a  sigh  or  tear ! 

But  heart  gives  way,  and  spirits  droop, 
To  think  that  Love  may  leave  us  here  ! 


THIRTY-FIVE.  103 

Have  we  no  charm  when  Youth  is  flown — 
Midway  to  death  left  sad  and  lone ! 

Yet  stay ! — as  'twere  a  twilight  star 

That  sends  its  thread  across  The  wave, 
I  see  a  brightening  light,  from  far, 

Steal  down  a  path  beyond  the  grave  ! 
And  now — bless  God  ! — its  golden  line 

Comes  o'er— and  lights  my  shadowy  way — 
And  shows  the  dear  hand  clasp'd  in  mine ! 
But,  list  what  those  sweet  voices  say  ! 
The  better  land's  in  sight, 
And,  by  its  chastening  light, 
All  love  from  life's  midway  is  driven, 
Save  hers   whose  clasped  hand  will  bring  thee  on  to 
heaven  ! 


104  CONTEMPLATION. 


Contemplation, 

"  THEY  are  all  up — the  innumerable  stars — 
And  hold  their  place  in  heaven.    My  eyes  have 

been 
Searching  the  pearly  depths  through  which  they 

spring 

Like  beautiful  creations,  till  I  feel 
As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 
Waiting  in  silence  for  the  word  of  God 
To  breathe  it  into  motion.    There  they  stand, 
Shining  in  order,  like  a  living  hymn 
Written  in  light,  awaking  at  the  breath 
Of  the  celestial  dawn,  and  praising  Him 
Who  made  them,  with  the  harmony  of  spheres. 
I  would  I  had  an  eagle's  ear  to  list 
That  melody.    I  would  that  I  might  float 
Up  in  that  boundless  element  and  feel 
Its  ravishing  vibrations,  like  the  pulse 
Beating  in  heaven !    My  spirit  is  athirst 
For  music— rarer  music  !    I  would  bathe 


CONTEMPLATION.  105 

-  My  soul  in  a  serener  atmosphere 
-.  Than  this  ;  I  long  to  mingle  with  the  flock 
Led  by  the  '  living  waters,'  and  to  stray 
In  the  '  green  pastures'  of  the  better  land ! 
When  wilt  thou  break,  dull  fetter !    When  shall  I 
Gather  my  wings,  and  like  a  rushing  thought 
Stretch  onward,  star  by  star,  up  into  heaven  !"  > 
Thus  mused  Alethe.    She  was  one  to  whom 
Life  had  been  like  the  witching  of  a  dream, 
Of  an  untroubled  sweetness.    She  was  born 
Of  a  high  race,  and  lay  upon  the  knee. 
With  her  soft  eyes  perusing  listlessly 
The  fretted  roof,  or,  on  Mosaic  floors, 
Grasp'd  at  the  tesselated  squares  inwrought 
With  metals  curiously.    Her  childhood  pass'd 
Like  faery— amid  fountains  and  green  haunts — 
Trying  her  little  feet  upon  a  lawn 
Of  velvet  evenness,  and  hiding  flowers 
In  her  sweet  breast,  as  if  it  were  a  fair 
And  pearly  altar  to  crush  incense  on. 
Her  youth — oh  !  that  was  queenly !    She  was  like 
A  dream  of  poetry  that  may  riot  be 
Written  or  told — exceeding  beautiful ! 
And  so  came  worshippers  ;  and  rank  bow'd  down 
And  breathed   upon  her  heart-strings  with  the 

breath  •• 

Of  pride,  and  bound  her  forehead  gorgeously 


106  CONTEMPLATION. 

With  dazzling  scorn,  and  gave  unto  her  step 
A  majesty— as  if  she  trod  the  sea, 
And  the  proud  waves,  unbidden,  lifted  her  ! 
And  so  she  grew  to  woman — her  mere  look 
Strong  as  a  monarch's  signet,  and  her  hand 
The  ambition  of  a  kingdom.    From  all  this 
Turn'd  her  high  heart  away !    She  had  a  mind, 
Deep,  and  immortal,  and  it  would  not  feed 
On  pageantry.    She  thirsted  for  a  spring 
Of  a  serener  element,  and  drank 
Philosophy,  and  for  a  little  while 
She  was  allay'd,— till,  presently,  it  turn'd 
Bitter  within  her,  and  her  spirit  grew 
Faint  for  undying  water.    Then  she  came 
To  the  pure  fount  of  God,  and  is  athirst 
No  more— save  when  the  fever  of  the  world 
Falleth  upon  her,  she  will  go,  sometimes, 

1  Out  in  the  star-light  quietness,  and  breathe 

;  A  holy  aspiration  after  Heaven. 


ON    THE    DEATH,  ETC.  107 


t|je  Beat])  of  a 


How  beautiful  it  is  for  man  to  die 
Upon  the  walls  of  Zion  !  to  be  call'd, 
Like  a  watch-worn  and  weary  sentinel, 
To  put  his  armor  off,  and  rest  —  in  heaven  ! 

The  sun  was  setting  on  Jerusalem, 

The  deep  blue  sky  had  not  a  cloud,  and  light 

Was  pouring  on  the  dome  of  Omar's  mosque, 

Like  molten  silver.    Every  thing  was  fair  ; 

And  beauty  hung  upon  the  painted  fanes  ; 

Like  a  grieved  spirit,  lingering  ere  she  gave 

Her  wing  to  air,  for  heaven.    The  crowds  of  men 

Were  in  the  busy  streets,  and  nothing  look'd 

Like  wo,  or  suifering,  save  one  small  train 

Bearing  the  dead  to  burial.    It  pass'd  by, 

And  left  no  trace  upon  the  busy  throng. 

The  sun  was  just  as  beautiful  ;  the  shout 

Of  joyous  revelry,  and  the  low  hum 

Of  stirring  thousands  rose  as  constantly  ! 

Life  look'd  as  winning  ;  and  the  earth  and  sky, 


108 


ON    THE    DEATH 


And  every  thing  seem'd  strangely  bent  to  make 

A  contrast  to  that  comment  upon  life. 

How  wonderful  it  is  that  human  pride 

Can  pass  that  touching  moral  as  it  does — 

Pass  it  so  frequently,  in  all  the  force 

Of  mournful  and  most  simple  eloquence — 

And  learn  no  lesson  !    They  bore  on  the  dead, 

With  the  slow  step  of  sorrow,  troubled  not 

By  the  rude  multitude,  save,  here  and  there, 

A  look  of  vague  inquiry,  or  a  curse 

Half-mutter'd  by  some  haughty  Turk  whose  sleeve 

Had  touch'd  the  tassel  of  the  Christian's  pall. 

And  Israel  too  pass'd  on— the  trampled  Jew  ! 

Israel ! — who  made  Jerusalem  a  throne 

For  the  wide  world— pass'd  on  as  carelessly ; 

Giving  no  look  of  interest  to  tell 

The  shrouded  dead  was  any  thing  to  her. 

Oh  that  they  would  be  gather'd  as  a  brood 

Is  gather'd  by  a  parent's  sheltering  wings  ! — 

They  laid  him  down  with  strangers  ;  for  his  home 

Was  with  the  setting  sun,  and  they  who  stood 

And  look'd  so  steadfastly  upon  his  grave, 

Were  not  his  kindred  ;  but  they  found  him  there, 

And  loved  him  for  his  ministry  of  Christ. 

He  had  died  young.    But  there  are  silver'd  heads 

Whose  race  of  duty  is  less  nobly  run. 


OF   A    MISSIONARY.  109 


His  heart  was  with  Jerusalem  ;  and  strong 

As  was  a  mother's  love,  and  the  sweet  ties 

Religion  makes  so  beautiful  at  home, 

He  flung  them  from  him  in  his  eager  race, 

And  sought  the  broken  people  of  his  God, 

To  preach  to  them  of  JESUS.    There  was  one, 

Who  was  his  friend  and  helper.    One  who  went 

And  knelt  beside  him  at  the  sepulchre 

Where  Jesus  slept,  to  pray  for  Israel. 

They  had  one  spirit,  and  their  hearts  were  knit 

With  more  than  human  love.    God  call'd  him 

home. 

And  he  of  whom  I  speak  stood  up  alone, 
And  in  his  broken-heartedness  wrought  on 
Until  his  Master  call'd  him. 

Oh,  is  it  not  a  noble  thing  to  die 
As  dies  the  Christian,  with  his  armor  on  ! — 
What  is  the  hero's  clarion,  though  its  blast 
Ring  with  the  mastery  of  a  world,  to  this  1 — 
What  are  the  searching  victories  of  mind — 
The  lore  of  vanish'd  ages  ? — What  are  all 
The  trumpetings  of  proud  humanity, 
To  the  short  history  of  him  who  made 
His  sepulchre  beside  the  King  of  kings  1 


110  ON    THE    PICTURE    OF 


t&e  picture  of  a  "  CfrfZlr  tfreU  of 


TIRED  of  play !    Tired  of  play ! 

What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day  ! 

j  The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee  ; 

j  The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree  ; 

!  The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves  ; 

|  Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done- 
How  hast  thou  spent  it— restless  one ! 

i  Playing?    But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide  ? 
What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven  1 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
What  hast  thou  learn'd  by  field  and  hill, 
By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing  rill  ? 

!  There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 


A  "  CHILD    TJRED    OF    PLAY."  Ill 

j  — 

,  That  will  find  thee  tired— but  not  of  play ! 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest  now, 
With  drooping  limbs  and  aching  brow, 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 
Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aching  brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now  ! 
Well  for  thee,  if  thy  lip  could  tell 
A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well. 
If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  distress — 
If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness — 
if  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 
And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence— 
If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 
With  her  holy  meanings  eloquently — 
If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 
From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove — 
.  If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 
,   Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard — 
!  Then  when  the  night  steals  on,  as  now, 
j  It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 
i  And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 
i  Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


112  A  CHILD'S  FIRST 


&  €*f)Ws  first  Empression  of  a  Star. 

SHE  had  been  told  that  God  made  all  the  stars 

That  twinkled  up  in  heaven,  and  now  she  stood 

Watching  the  coming  of  the  twilight  on, 

As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 

And  this  were  its  first  eve.    She  stood  alone 

By  the  low  window,  with  the  silken  lash 

Of  her  soft  eye  upraised,  and  her  sweet  mouth 

Half  parted  with  the  new  and  strange  delight 

Of  beauty  that  she  could  not  comprehend, 

And  had  not  seen  before.    The  purple  folds 

Of  the  low  sunset  clouds,  and  the  blue  sky 

That  look'd  so  still  and  delicate  above, 

Fill'd  her  young  heart  with  gladness,  and  the  eve 

Stole  on  with  its  deep  shadows,  and  she  still 

Stood  looking  at  the  west  with  that  half  smile, 

As  if  a  pleasant  thought  were  at  her  heart. 

Presently,  in  the  edge  of  the  last  tint 

Of  sunset,  where  the  blue  was  melted  in 

To  the  faint  golden  mellowness,  a  star 


IMPRESSION    OF    A    STAR.  113 


Stood  suddenly.    A  laugh  of  wild  delight 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and  putting  up  her  hands, 
Her  simple  thought  broke  forth  expressively — 
"  Father  !  dear  father  !  God  has  made  a  star  1" 


114  ON    WITNESSING 


a  Baptism. 


SHE  stood  up  in  the  meekness  of  a  heart 
Resting  on  God,  and  held  her  fair  young  child 
U  pon  her  bosom,  with  its  gentle  eyes 
Folded  in  sleep,  as  if  its  soul  had  gone 
To  whisper  the  baptismal  vow  in  heaven. 
The  prayer  went  up  devoutly,  and  the  lips 
Of  the  good  man  glowM  fervently  with  faith 
That  it  would  be,  even  as  he  had  pray'd, 
And  the  sweet  child  be  gather'd  to  the  fold 
Of  Jesus.    As  the  holy  words  went  on 
Her  lips  moved  silently,  and  tears,  fast  tears, 
Stole  from  beneath  her  lashes,  and  upon 
The  forehead  of  the  beautiful  child  lay  soft 
With  the  baptismal  water.    Then  I  thought 
That  to  the  eye  of  GoJ,  that  mother's  tears 
Would  be  a  deeper  covenant—  which  sin 
And  the  temptations  of  the  world,  and  death 
Would    leave   unbroken—  and    that    she    would 
know 


A    BAPTISM.  115 

In  the  clear  light  of  heaven,  how  very  strong 
The  prayer  which  press'd  them  from  her  heart  had 

been 
In  leading  its  young  spirit  up  to  God. 


116  REVERIE    AT    GLENMARY. 


SiXeberfe  at 


I  HAVE  enough,  0  God  !    My  heart  to-night 
Runs  over  with  its  fulness  of  content  ; 
And  as  I  look  out  on  the  fragrant  stars, 
And  from  the  beauty  of  the  night  take  in 
My  priceless  portion  —  yet  myself  no  more 
Than  in  the  universe  a  grain  of  sand— 
I  feel  His  glory  who  could  make  a  world, 
Yet  in  the  lost  depths  of  the  wilderness 
Leave  not  a  flower  unfinish'd  ! 

Rich,  though  poor  ! 

My  low-roof  'd  cottage  is  this  hour  a  heaven. 
Music  is  in  it—  and  the  song  she  sings, 
That  sweet-voiced  wife  of  mine,  arrests  the  ear 
Of  my  young  child  awake  upon  her  knee  ; 
And  with  his  calm  eye  on  his  master's  face, 
My  noble  hound  lies  couchant—  and  all  here- 
All  in  this  little  home,  yet  boundless  heaven- 
Are,  in  such  love  as  I  have  power  to  give, 
Blessed  to  overflowing. 


REVERIE    AT    GLENMARY.  117 


Thou,  who  look'st 

Upon  my  brimming  heart  this  tranquil  eve, 
Knowest  its  fulness,  as  thou  dost  the  dew 
Sent  to  the  hidden  violet  by  Thee  ; 
And,  as  that  flower,  from  its  unseen  abode, 
Sends  its  sweet  breath  up,  duly,  to  the  sky, 
Changing  its  gift  to  incense,  so,  oh  God  ! 
May  the  sweet  drops  that  to  my  humble  cup 
Find  their  far  way  from  heaven,  send  up,  to  Thee, 
Fragrance  at  thy  throne  welcome  ! 


118  TO    A    CITY    PIGEON. 


a 


STOOP  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove  ! 
Thy  daily  visits  have  touch'd  my  love. 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That  stirs  so  low  in  thy  mellow  throat, 

And  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 

Why  dost  thou  sit  on  the  heated  eaves, 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  freshen'd  leaves  ? 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  the  sultry  street, 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool  and  sweet  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear 
This  noise  of  people—  this  sultry  air  1 

Thou  alone  of  the  feather'd  race 

Dost  look  unscared  on  the  human  face  ; 

Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee, 

Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts  to  be  ; 

And  the  "  gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and  love. 


TO    A    CITY    PIGEON.  119 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird  ! 

Thou'rt  named  with  childhood's  earliest  word  ! 

Thou'rt  link'd  with  all  that  is  fresh  and  wild 
'   In  the  pnson'd  thoughts  of  the  city  child ; 

And  thy  glossy  wings 
i  Are  its  brightest  image  of  moving  things. 

1   It  is  no  light  chance.    Thou  art  set  apart, 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tamed  thy  heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and  fail- 
That  else  were  seal'd  in  this  crowded  air ; 

I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come  then,  ever,  when  daylight  leaves 
The  page  I  read,  to  my  humble  eaves, 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow  spout, 
And  murmur  thy  low  sweet  music  out ! 

I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  heaven,  sweet  bird,  in  thee  ! 


120 


THE    BELFRY    PIGEON. 


ON  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air : 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  pass'd, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gain'd  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel- 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 
Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 


THE    BELFRY    PIGEON.  121 


When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight 

moon — 

When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon— 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light- 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night" — 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirr'd, 
Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 
Sweet  bird  !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 
Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


122  SATURDAY    AFTERNOON. 


JSaturtraj  Afternoon. 

\Wriitenfor  a  Picture.] 

I  LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray  ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walk'd  the  world  for  fourscore  years  ; 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true  ; 

I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time  :" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on  ;  I  am  with  you  there, 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON.  123 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smother'd  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  ; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


124  THE    SABBATH. 


5Ff)e  Sabbat*. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  morning,  in  the  time 

When  the  leaves  fall — and  the  bright  sun  shone 

out 

As  when  the  morning  stars  first  sang  together — 
So  quietly  and  calmly  fell  his  light 
Upon  a  world  at  rest.    There  was  no  leaf 
In  motion,  and  the  loud  winds  slept,  and  all 
Was  still.    The  lab'ring  herd  was  grazing 
Upon  the  hill-side  quietly— uncalled 
By  the  harsh  voice  of  man  ;  and  distant  souna, 
Save  from  the  murmuring  waterfall,  came  not 
As  usual  on  the  ear.    One  hour  stole  on, 
And  then  another  of  the  morning,  calm 
And  still  as  Eden  ere  the  birth  of  man. 
And  then  broke  in  the  Sabbath  chime  of  bells — 
And  the  old  man,  and  his  descendants,  went 
Together  to  the  house  of  God.    I  join'd 
The  well-apparell'd  crowd.    The  holy  man 
Rose  solemnly,  and  breathed  the  prayer  of  faith — 
And  the  gray  saint,  just  on  the  wing  for  heaven — 


THE    SABBATH.  125 

And  the  fair  maid— and  the  bright-hair 'd  young 

man — 

And  child  of  curling  locks,  just  taught  to  close 
The  lash  of  its  blue  eye  the  while ;— all  knelt 
In  attitude  of  prayer— and  then  the  hymn, 
Sincere  in  its  low  melody,  went  up 
To  worship  God. 

The  white-hair'd  pastor  rose 
And  look'd  upon  his  flock— and  with  an  eye 
That  told  his  interest,  and  voice  that  spoke 
In  tremulous  accents,  eloquence  like  Paul's, 
He  lent  Isaiah's  fire  to  the  truths 
Of  revelation,  and  persuasion  came 
Like  gushing  waters  from  his  lips,  till  hearts 
Unused  to  bend  were  soften'd,  and  the  eye 
Unwont  to  weep  sent  forth  the  willing  tear. 

I  went  my  way — but  as  I  went,  I  thought 
How  holy  was  the  Sabbath-day  of  God, 


DEDICATION    HYMN. 


SEetiicatfon 


[  Written  to  be  sung  at  the  consecration  of  Hanover-street 
Church,  Boston.] 

THE  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod, 
Was  the  first  temple—  built  by  God— 
His  fiat  laid  the  corner-stone, 
And  heaved  its  pillars,  one  by  one. 

He  hung  its  starry  roof  on  high— 

The  broad  illimitable  sky  ; 

He  spread  its  pavement,  green  and  bright, 

And  curtain'd  it  with  morning  light. 

The  mountains  in  their  places  stood— 
The  sea  —  the  sky  —  and  "  all  was  good  ;" 
And,  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The  "  morning  stars  together  sang." 

Lord  !  'tis  not  ours  to  make  the  sea 
And  earth  and  sky  a  house  for  thee  ; 
But  in  thy  sight  our  oif  'ring  stands— 
A  humbler  temple,  "  made  with  hands." 


